


Change Their Stars

by kjack89



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: A Knight's Tale AU, Alternate Universe - A Knight's Tale, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Developing Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content in Chapter 9, Knights - Freeform, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Peasants, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-09 02:01:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 35,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1140118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Knight's Tale AU. When the knight that Bahorel squires for dies mid-tournament, Bahorel rides in his place, setting off a chain of events that asks the question: can a man change his stars?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The first part here does not vary much from the film, but will vary more as time goes on (promise). Since the source material is anachronistic, expect a similar casual disregard for the actual 1300s in this.
> 
> Most of the rest of the Amis will come in to play in forthcoming chapters.
> 
> Usual disclaimer: I own nothing.

On a bluff a short distance away from the tournament grounds, a tall man named Bahorel stood next to two slightly shorter men, one named Combeferre, who was staring with open disgust towards a tree in front of them, and the other named Joly, who looked more concerned than anything. Underneath the tree was the sprawled body of a man in full armor. He wasn’t moving.

Bahorel cleared his throat and ran a hand through shaggy hair in desperate need of a trim. “Should we help him?” he asked, less concerned for the man and far more concerned for themselves. “He has to be in the lists in two minutes. Two minutes or forfeit.”

Joly glanced at Combeferre, who looked steadily back at him, and sighed. He carefully made his way to the prone figure and bent to check his pulse and then held his hand in front of his mouth and nose for any signs of air movement. Finding none, he turned back to the other two, his expression grim. “Dead.”

Though Bahorel looked startled by the fact, he was interrupted by a fourth man who ran towards them, elated look on his face. “Three scores to none after two lances!” he exclaimed, clapping Bahorel on the shoulder. “All Geoffroi needs to do is not fall off his horse and we’ve won!” The man, called Feuilly, froze when he saw Joly kneeling next to the dead knight.

Combeferre cleared his throat. “He’s dead.”

Feuilly looked around wildly at all of them. “What do you mean, dead?” he demanded.

From his position on the ground, Joly huffed, “The spark of his life is smothered in shades. His spirit is gone but his stench remains. Does that answer your question?”

“No.” Feuilly’s voice was firm as he denied what Joly and Combeferre had just told him. “No, he’s asleep, or, or, he’s ill. But he’s not dead!” When all three other men just looked at him, he shook his head, his tone turning desperate. “We’re minutes from victory! I haven’t eaten in three days!”

“None of us have, Feuilly,” Bahorel sighed tiredly, as Combeferre turned away, muttering, “We need to fetch a priest.”

Feuilly, on the other hand, stalked toward Geoffroi, expression murderous, and only Joly’s quick action stopped him from attacking the corpse as he shouted, “Wake up, you stupid, mangy—”

They were interrupted by the whinny of a horse as a tournament official trotted towards them, looking imperiously at them with a raised eyebrow as he reined his horse in. “Horse squire,” he said condescendingly to Bahorel, who tensed. “Sir Geoffroi must report at once or forfeit the match.”

Combeferre cleared his throat. “Well, see, he’s—”

“He’s on his way,” Bahorel interrupted, smiling winningly at the official, who just shook his head as he spurred his horse back to the arena. Bahorel turned to face Combeferre, who was openly gaping at him, and Bahorel just shrugged a little sheepishly as he said, “I’ll ride in his place.”

Combeferre still gaped as he repeated, “You’ll do –  _what_?”

Bahorel had already crossed to Geoffroi, kneeling by his side to start taking off his armor. “Strip his armor,” he ordered Joly, who looked completely miffed but bent to do so. “I’m riding in his place.”

“What’s your name, Bahorel?” Combeferre asked loudly, looking down on them with his arms crossed. When Bahorel didn’t answer, didn’t even look up to acknowledge him, Combeferre repeated, “I’m asking you, Bahorel Toiture, what’s your name? It’s not Sir Bahorel, it’s not Count or Duke or Earl Bahorel, it’s certainly not King Bahorel.”

Gritting his teeth, Bahorel answered in a low voice, “I’m aware of that.”

Combeferre snapped, “You have to be of noble birth to compete!”

“It’s a detail!” Bahorel snapped, beginning to pull Sir Geoffroi’s armor on. “The stakes right now are food. Do you want to eat or don’t you?”

A muscle worked in Combeferre’s jaw but he chose to stay quiet, though he also made no move to help Bahorel as he dressed. Joly, on the other hand, went from looking confused to concerned, and he muttered, “If they find out who you are, there’ll be hell to pay.”

Bahorel just gave Joly his most charmingly roguish grin as he adjusted his breastplate. “Then pray that they don’t.”

* * *

 

Not even five minutes later, Joly was leading the horse toward the arena as Combeferre hissed, “Visor!” to Bahorel from his side. Bahorel rolled his eyes but closed the visor over his face, adjusting his gauntlets for a brief moment as the horse paused at the end of the tilt-yard.

Seeing the horse and rider finally in the lists, the herald cleared his throat and announced, “The score stands at three lances to none in favor of Sir Geoffroi.” He made a small bow towards Bahorel, who felt a bit self-conscious as he waved a mailed hand. “Lord Philippe, stand your ready. Sir Geoffroi, stand your ready.”

Now Bahorel snapped his fist up to show he was ready, though Joly asked nervously, “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

“Of course,” Bahorel said, his voice muffled by the helmet, and though no one could see his eyes, they could tell he had just rolled them. “I have tilted against Sir Geoffroi before, you know. Many times.”

Feuilly snorted. “Yes, in practice, as his target. You were never allowed to strike him.”

Bahorel shook his head, his armor creeping, and he snapped, “Bugger the details. I’m ready.”

“Focus on the stakes then,” Combeferre suggested, patting the horse’s neck as he squinted down the tilt-yard. “Stay on the horse. He needs three points to beat you, so a broken lance won’t do it for him. He has to knock you off the horse.”

“I know how to score, Combeferre!” Bahorel snapped, before pausing to take a deep breath, squaring his shoulders and straightening. “I’ve waited my whole life for this moment.”

And he had. From the time he was a lad, Bahorel had dreamed of being a knight. As a boy, it was because he was fascinated with the idea of someone who just went around hitting people, which, truthfully, was still the case. But more than that, he had dreamt of the life that knight’s lived, one of honor and pride and all the things he had wanted but never dared to dream of for himself, born the peasant son of a thatcher in Southern France.

His friends knew some of this dream, of course, but their own dreams were a bit narrower, and Feuilly gave him a strange look as he scoffed wryly, “You’ve waited your whole life for Sir Geoffroi to shite himself to death?” He shrugged and turned away, clearly dubious. “Huh.”

Bahorel would’ve replied, but at that moment, the official dropped the flag signaling the start of the tilt, and Bahorel dedicated all thought to spurring the horse forward lance clenched tightly in his hand.

The feeling of the horse pounding against the packed dirt as she galloped was an incredible feeling, matching the pounding of Bahorel’s heart as he raced down to meet his appointment with another knight’s lance. It was everything he had hoped it would be and more. His grip seemed to falter on his lance as his breathing stuttered, and he belatedly remembered Sir Geoffroi talking about keeping the lance in the cradle.

At the last possible moment, Bahorel brought the lance toward his side, holding it steadily and hitting the other knight as they met in the lists.

Well, he assumed he hit the other knight. He got hit with what felt like a hammer and for the moment, his entire world went black.

As soon as Bahorel was hit, Joly, Combeferre and Feuilly sprinted towards him. Happy though they were that he had managed to stay on the horse, thus winning the match, they – or at least Joly and Combeferre – were concerned by the fact that Bahorel was sagging in the saddle and not moving. “Bahorel!” Joly shouted, letting Combeferre grab the horse’s reins.

“We won!” Feuilly shouted as well, giving first Combeferre then Joly crushing hugs. “We won!”

“Get off me!” Joly growled, shaking Bahorel’s arm. “Bahorel, can you hear me?” He stretched up as far as he could, and his expression of concern faded into one of excitement, and he let go of Bahorel to hug Feuilly back. “He’s breathing! He’s still alive!”

* * *

 

Half an hour later, the prize Bahorel as Geoffroi had won was exchanged for silver coins, which Combeferre distributed among them. “Four for Bahorel,” he said, passing four coins to Bahorel, who looked down at them with a frown, “Four for Joly, four for Feuilly, and four for Combeferre, who’s going straight home to France.”

Joly and Feuilly added in what they planned to do with their coins, but Bahorel just turned the pieces of silver over in his hands as he stared at them. This was as much money as they were likely to have in this life, but with this money…With this money, they could all make a new life. The feeling he had experienced in the lists didn’t have to end. The dreams that they had could all come true. “We could do this.”

“We have done it,” Combeferre said, raising an eyebrow at him as he nodded towards the coins in Bahorel’s hand. “That’s silver there.”

Bahorel shook his head impatiently, trying to put to words everything that he was feeling at the moment. “No, I mean we can do  _this_. We could be champions.”

Combeferre, Feuilly and Joly all stared at Bahorel as if he had grown an extra head, and Bahorel huffed a sigh. “Give us your coins. No, come on, gimme your coins.” He practically had to rip the coins from their hands, but then passed them each back a single coin. “You each get a coin, and that leaves thirteen. Thirteen pieces of silver for training and outfitting, which should more than cover it.”

All three still looked unconvinced, so Bahorel barreled on. “The tournament in Blyth is in one month. In one month we could split a prize bigger than this one, and be on our way to glory and riches none of us ever even dared to dream of!”

There was a brief moment of silence, then Combeferre said in a tired sort of voice, “Or in one month we could be lying in a ditch with Sir Geoffroi.”

“I don’t want glory and riches, Bahorel,” Joly said quietly. “I just want to go home.”

Feuilly nodded firmly. “I’ll take my coins now,” he said, holding his hand out expectantly. “Think of all the cakes and pies I can eat with four silver coins!”

Shaking his head, Bahorel started walking away, his shoulders set. Joly and Combeferre exchanged looks as they followed after him. “But you can’t even joust,” Joly pointed out logically, as Combeferre nodded emphatically at his side.

Bahorel shrugged and didn’t turn. “It’s not about technique. Jousting is mostly about the guts to take a blow and to land one, and guts I have, in spades! The technique I have a month to learn.” When they still looked unconvinced, he added, a little desperately, “The sword! I can compete in the sword as well, and you can’t name a man better in a fight than me!”

“In the practice ring, with a blunted sword,” Feuilly pointed out with as much patience as he could muster.

Combeferre shook his head and snapped, “None of that even matters. Bahorel, you’re not of noble birth!”

“So we lie!” Bahorel shouted, stopping to face them, his eyes wide and his expression fierce. “So we lie. How did the nobles even become noble in the first place? They took it – at the tip of a sword. I’ll do it with a lance.” Combeferre just shook his head, and Bahorel said, his voice quiet and determined, “A man can change his stars, Ferre. And I won’t spend the rest of my life as nothing.”

“Nothing?” Combeferre repeated, his voice soft as he pointed over Bahorel’s shoulder to corpses rotting as they hung from the gallows. “ _That_  is nothing, and that’s right where this scheme will take you.”

Joly shook his head a little sadly. “We’re sons of peasants, Bahorel,” he pointed out. “Glory and riches are beyond our grasp.”

Feuilly interjected, “But a full stomach – that dream  _can_  come true.”

Bahorel backed up a few more paces down the road and took a deep breath before hold his arms out to his side, the coins in his hands. “If you can take your coins from me, go to France. Eat cake. But if you can’t, you come with me.”

Without any hesitation, all three men rushed Bahorel, tackling him to the ground. They scuffled in the dust for a long moment, but Bahorel proved triumphant, standing up with all the coins still firmly in his grasp. “Combeferre. Joly. Feuilly. Please.” He was the quietest and most desperate he had been; his dreams were on the line here, and Bahorel was never one to surrender easily. “With thirteen silver pieces, four men can change their stars.”

Combeferre groaned and leaned back against the road, his chest heaving from the fight. “God love you, Bahorel.”

Bahorel, recognizing this for the acquiescence that it was, grinned wildly. ‘I know, I know, because no one else will.”

His fists closed around the coins, and his eyes were bright with the dreams he had almost forgotten he had once had. They  _could_  do this –  _would_  do this, and he could be a champion. It would be the hardest thing he would ever do, but he would work and train and become the knight he had always wanted to be, and nothing would get in the way of that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which the roles of the rest of the Amis become apparent.
> 
> I didn’t mention this in the first part because I forgot to, but while A Knight’s Tale was set in France with English knights, this is set vaguely in England with French knights. Because whyever not. I’ve also unashamedly stolen the names of real knights to use in this. I regret nothing.
> 
> Much thanks to [Boots](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pwnmercys/pseuds/Boots), who helped me with Bossuet's Latin motto.

A few weeks later found Bahorel atop the horse, looking almost nothing like before. His hair was freshly trimmed, his tunic clean and new, his beard was shaven, and perhaps most importantly, there was a newfound confidence in the set of his shoulders and the way he held his head.

The past few weeks had not been easy, despite his insistence that he would learn quickly. He had the bruises and scars to prove what training had taken out of him, but he also had the confidence and assurance to show what his training had given him. If a knight was made up of strength and confidence, then Bahorel had in just a few short weeks become a knight in all but noble status.

His companions were similarly transformed, at least on the surface, dressed in clean clothes and freshly bathed for the first time in a long time. They had put their coins to good use, and even managed to have full stomachs (which Feuilly was particularly happy about).

Now they were on the road to Blyth and the tournament there, and their spirits were about as high as they could be, taking turns riding the horse (at least until they passed other people on the road, in which case Bahorel rode to maintain his appearance as a knight). Feuilly was just about to insist that it was his turn to ride when a figure appeared on the side of the road in front of them, ambling unconcernedly in the same direction as them.

The man was completely naked.

Bahorel reigned in the horse as he openly gaped at the man, who, when they reached him, turned and gave them all a cheerful wave. “Good morning!”

“What are you doing?” Joly asked, raising an eyebrow at the man, who just smiled back at him.

“Well, I am walking, or so it appears anyway,” he said, almost happily. When they just stared at him, he elaborated, “My feet take steps down the road and my body follows along with it. It is a lovely day for a stroll, do you not think? Or perhaps a better word for walk is needed: trudging, slouching, stepping forward into my fate…”

Bahorel glanced at Combeferre, whose expression mirrored his own. This man was clearly mad. “Were you robbed?” Bahorel asked, feeling like it was the sort of question a passing knight might ask a stranger.

The man looked up at him, something contemplative on his face. “A very interesting question. Yes, and at the same time, very much no.” He held his arms out from his body and looked down at himself. “One might call an involuntary vow of poverty, of attempting to transcend the weight of material items in favor of the divine—”

He stumbled over a rock and fell to the ground. Joly made as if to rush to his side to check on him, his background as a physician’s assistant taking over, though he paused long enough to ask, “Who are you?”

“Infelix sed non sine felicitate. Unlucky but not without happiness,” the man pronounced almost solemnly, beaming at them as if they were in on some kind of joke. “Bossuet Lesgle de Meaux is the name, orating and occasionally writing is the game, though I’ve also dabbled in law a bit.” His smile faded slightly as the rest just looked at him blankly. “Bossuet. Bossuet Lesgle, the orator?”

“A what?” Feuilly asked, and Bossuet stared at him with something like outrage.

“A what?” he repeated, incredulously. “An orator! You know, I give speeches, and write them and sometimes other things. I mean, I’ve written speeches for great lords and kings, given speeches before the Court, written everything from creeds and edicts to patents of nobility. Perhaps you’ve heard of the speech I gave at Queen Philippa’s funeral?” All four shook their heads simultaneously, and Bossuet’s shoulders slumped. “Fine, well, that’s to be expected, really, with my luck.”

Bahorel slid off the back of the horse, his expression intrigued as he walked towards Bossuet. “Did you say that you’ve written patents of nobility?”

Bossuet gave him an appraising look as he stood up off the ground, making half-hearted attempts to brush the dust from his bare legs. “Yes, that’s right.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “And who might you gentlemen be?”

Glancing around at his friends, Bahorel said quickly, “Well, I am Sir William des Roches, and these are my faithful squires, uh…” He froze for a moment, trying to remember the fake identities they had all created. “Uh, Roland of Yorkshire—” the look Combeferre gave him told him he had gotten that terribly wrong, but he barreled onward “—Wat of Crew, and, uh, Orick of Cornwall.”

Bossuet nodded sagely, and held his hand out to shake. “And I’m King Charles V, pleased to meet you.” He couldn’t contain his snort of laughter as he added, “No, wait a minute! I’m Charlemagne! No, no, I’m Saint John the Baptist!”

Bahorel had heard enough, and he drew his sword, holding the point at Bossuet’s throat. “Hold your tongue, sir, or lose it.”

“Now, see,  _that_  I do believe, Sir William,” Bossuet said slowly, a small, speculative grin still on his face. He leaned back away from the sword. “So you’re off to the tournament, are you?”

Feuilly frowned at him. “This is the road to Blyth, is it not?”

Shrugging, Bossuet said, “Well, that remains to be seen. See, they’re limiting the field at Blyth. Noble birth must be established for four generations on either side of the family. Patents of nobility must be provided.”

Bahorel tried not to let his expression slip into despair, though it was a hard task. All of their hard work, for nothing? Combeferre’s eyebrows were drawn as if he was thinking something similar, and Joly’s expression was stormy. Bossuet sidestepped the sword that Bahorel still had pointed at his throat and held up his hands innocently. “Look, clothe me, shoe me, feed me, please, and let me ride that horse for a bit, and you’ll have your patents.”

Now the friends exchanged terse looks, each wondering if there was any other way. They conferred with silent glances and raised eyebrows until each shrugged in agreement, and then Joly stepped toward Bossuet, giving him his most charming smile. “If you betray us,” he said in an almost cheerful voice, “I will kill you in the most painful way that I know. I will ensure that your insides are outside, your outsides inside, your entrails will become your extrails…need I continue?” He leaned in, his eyes flashing dangerously as he promised, “Pain. Lots of pain.”

Bossuet smiled at him, a little nervously, and nodded in understanding, and the group that now numbered five continued down the road to Blyth.

* * *

 

Lord Jean Prouvaire sighed heavily as he adjusted his doublet, casting a critical eye down at the garment. “How tedious,” he said, picking at a loose thread. “Another day of sitting here in Blyth, pretending to care about a bunch of sweaty men throwing themselves at each other via horseback.” He glanced at his valet, a handsome man named Courfeyrac, and asked sweetly, “There are so much better ways for men to throw themselves at each other, do you not think?”

Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow at him. “My lord, we have discussed your attempts at flirting with me in the past and decided it is  _highly_ inappropriate.”

Jehan snorted. “Says the man who slapped my ass when waking me this morning.” He sighed again. “Ah, Courf, if only you were a higher born noble and not from some back-country holding that’s practically peasant in nature. And if only we were even remotely attracted to each other. Our marriage could have been so perfect.”

Nodding sagely, Courfeyrac said, “Alas, you cannot have everything you want. Like today, where you must sit in tourney instead of sleeping with the stable hand.”

Jehan looked scandalized. “The stable hand? Don’t be vulgar.” He gave Courfeyrac a sly smile. “The kitchen boy, on the other hand…” Courfeyrac laughed and Jehan smirked, but his smile faded quickly. “Seriously, though, I dislike tournaments as much as anything, and if only my uncle would let me sit this one out. Instead, I must go in his stead, to show his support. Sometimes it is difficult to be in my position, you know.”

“Ah, yes, the perils of nobility,” Courfeyrac said, barely managing to keep a straight face. “Would you rather be a peasant, my lord?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jehan scoffed, though he grinned at Courfeyrac. “Tell me, when your parents sent you to court, was it to train as court jester, or is your attempt at humor just an unexpected perk?”

Courfeyrac grinned and gave Jehan an ostentatious bow. “No, my parents sent me to court in hopes that I would be valet to Lord Jean Prouvaire, nephew of the King, cousin to the Golden Prince himself.”

Rolling his eyes, Jehan turned to examine his reflection in the floor-length mirror. “Courf, as your oldest friend, I feel obligated to tell you that sarcasm does not suit you.”

Courfeyrac pouted as he lounged on Jehan’s bed, running a hand through his already tussled dark curls. “The prince’s consort is incredibly sarcastic, and the prince seems to love that. What’s good for the gander—”

“Kindly do not finish that thought,” Jehan said, turning to raise an eyebrow at Courfeyrac. “Prince Enjolras has spoken publicly of dismantling the monarchy in favor of a Roman style republic. Forgive me if I do not trust his tastes.”

“Says the man who voluntarily chose to wear  _that_  doublet with  _those_  hose,” Courfeyrac snorted, sitting up in bed. “Besides, I’m telling Grantaire you said that about Enjolras’s tastes.”

Jehan rolled his eyes again and turned back to the mirror, smoothing the front of his doublet, which was made of a particularly garish shade of fuchsia. “Duke Grantaire and I have been friends even longer than you and I. He knows well that I have only room enough for one dark-haired man in my life, and alas, it appears that role is already filled by my valet.” He frowned at Courfeyrac. “Do you really think these hose don’t go with this doublet?”

Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow at him. “Do  _you_  honestly think that they do?” Jehan just shrugged and Courfeyrac shook his head in a long-suffering kind of way. “Well, at least it’s better than the time you insisted that you could wear a surcoat over a waistcoat.”

Though Jehan made a face, he also laughed slightly at the memory. “A valid point, my valiant valet,” he pronounced solemnly. “Now, since this is as good as it is going to get—”

“And since the men who are going to chat you up are into you for your looks and money and not your fashion sense,” Courfeyrac interjected.

“—And since the men who are going to shamelessly pledge to win the tournament in my honor do not indeed care what I dress myself in,” Jehan amended, looping his arm through Courfeyrac’s, “let us away to the tourney.”

* * *

 

Bossuet’s voice did not waver as he announced Bahorel to the tournament officials. “May I present my lord William des Roches, whose mother’s father was Giles Daubeney, son of Baron Cheyne, son of Akarius Fitz Bardolph, son of Robert de Ros, who witnessed the signing of the Magna Carta, son of—”

“That will do, herald,” the official said in a bored voice. “Six generations is more than enough. Show me the patents.”

This was the moment of truth, as Bossuet handed over the carefully constructed and, to Bahorel’s eyes at least, damn convincing patents of nobility. The tournament official took a long look at them and then said in the same bored voice, “Indicate in which events shall your lord William compete.”

Bossuet just managed to keep the grin off his face as he struck the shields indicating that Bahorel would compete in the mounted joust and the sword fight. The official handed the patents back to him and told him, “You will first meet Roger, Lord Mortimer.”

Giving a little bow, Bossuet told them, “Thank you very much”, practically skipping back to Bahorel, who reached down from where he was sitting on top of the horse to clap Bossuet’s shoulder in congratulations.

“I can’t believe it!” Bahorel exclaimed, though he tried to keep his voice down. “I have to thank you – I didn’t think we had a chance!”

Bossuet ducked his head and nodded. “My pleasure, Bahorel.”

Bahorel bit his lip in hesitation before blurting, “Act as my herald and you’ll receive a share of the winnings.”

Bossuet’s grin was answer enough, and he reached up to shake Bahorel’s hand. “Done. Now if you don’t mind, I have some business that I need to take care of.”

He headed off into the tournament grounds and Bahorel let a fierce smile spread across his face. They had done it! He would compete as a knight for glory and honor and riches beyond imagining. All of his dreams were finally going to come true.

He started whistling to himself as he walked his horse slowly through the tournament grounds, killing time before his first match, even though he could still barely contain his excitement. At least, he could barely contain his excitement until, straight in front of him like something out of a fairytale, was the most beautiful man in the most atrocious doublet that Bahorel had ever seen.

It was clear from his posture and his clothing that the man was highborn, a true noble, and ordinarily, Bahorel would have cast a few longing looks in the man’s direction, admiring his patrician nose and the strength of his jaw, or the way the sun shone on his auburn hair, but ultimately not doing or saying anything, as he was a peasant.

But now, now Bahorel was a knight. And maybe, just maybe, that meant he had a chance.

* * *

 

Jehan sighed heavily as he scoured the area for Courfeyrac, who had disappeared, most likely in chasing some man or woman. Suddenly, Courfeyrac popped up at his side, startling him. “You know, one would think a valet would stay close to his master,” Jehan scolded, though he was mostly joking.

Courfeyrac just laughed. “But if I had stayed close to you, I would not be able to tell you that there is a very handsome knight following you right now on his horse.”

“Oh, really?” Jehan replied, only mildly intrigued. In truth, many men followed him, sought him out, begged for his attention. It was the curse of being nobility, a minor son of a major house who brought into a marriage mostly his name and nothing else. His parents had hoped that at Court, he might find a suitable match, one whose house and riches would match well with the Prouvaires, but thus far, Jehan had been underwhelmed by the selection.

Still, it didn’t hurt to have another knight as a toy, so Jehan cast a brief look over his shoulder, appraising the man coolly. He was not what Jehan expected, that was certain. Tall, broad, and downright gorgeous. Certainly more Jehan’s type than most, with hair slightly too long to be considered proper but the perfect length for Jehan to wrap his fingers in and—

He realized he had been staring and quickly turned back to Courfeyrac, blushing slightly. “Come,” Jehan said, tugging on Courfeyrac’s arm. “Let’s see if he follows us.”

They wound their way slowly through the tournament grounds, and sure enough, the knight followed after them. Finally, when Jehan was just about to step inside a building, the knight called out, “Would you speak to me?”

Jehan paused, and the knight reined his horse in to walk beside Jehan. “Ah, to speak,” Jehan said, lowering his eyes modestly, though he smirked as well. “And here I thought you were following me only for the view from behind.”

“Certainly not,” the knight said, his voice brash and honest, so unlike the courtesans with which Jehan normally dealt. “For you are just as beautiful from the front. And your voice is a beauty unto itself. I would hear you speak if it cost me my ears.”

Now Jehan smiled a true smile, though he still did not look up at the knight. “That is well, for I do not want silence in my life.”

The knight leaned forward, his gaze intent. “Tell me your name.”

Jehan cocked his head slightly and met the knight’s eyes for the first time, lifting his chin to squarely meet his gaze. “Would you care if I were ugly?”

“Well, yes,” the knight said, instantly, and Jehan raised an eyebrow. The knight hastily said, “I mean, no. I mean…if…”

Before Jehan could rescue the poor man – before Jehan could decide if he was  _going_  to rescue the poor man, or just let himself dig his hole deeper – the bishop at the front of the church (for it was the church that Jehan had walked into, and into which the knight had eagerly followed him) shouted, “YOU! You desecrate the House of God!”

The knight sat straight up, looking wildly around as the bishop approached him. “Your name,” he hissed to Jehan, who just blinked innocently up at him. “Tell me name, man!”

“And what would you do with my name, sir Hunter?” Jehan returned, having seen far too many knights in this same position to believe that this one had any more honorable of intentions than the rest. “Call me a fox, for that is all I am to you.”

The knight spurred his horse around to head towards the exit, but he called over his shoulder just the same, “A fox? Oh, well then a fox you shall be until I find your name, my foxy lord!”

Then he was gone, and Jehan could not help but dissolve into laughter, though he stilled when the bishop turned his glare onto him. Courfeyrac nudged him. “See, I told you he was handsome.”

“And he is a handsome one, I’ll give him that,” Jehan agreed, a slightly dreamy look on his face as his grin grew wider. Perhaps this tournament would be more interesting than he had previously thought.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we finally stumble upon the last of our motley band of misfits...

With the horse’s legs pounding steadily down the lists underneath him, Bahorel let a fierce grin spread across his face, hidden by his helmet.  _This_  was where he belonged,  _this_  was what he had been meant to do all along, and he spared a brief moment of thanks that circumstances had allowed him this.

Then he caught sight of his opponent drawing closer, and all his thoughts went to the single goal of victory. Each breath matched his horse’s heaving flanks, and at the last possible moment, when they were so close he could see his opponent’s eyes through the slit in his visor, Bahorel’s lance shattered against the other knight’s breastplate.

The cheers of the crowd could not compete with the cheers of Combeferre, Feuilly and Joly, who rushed to Bahorel’s side, yelling and whooping as the tournament announcer said loudly, “Sir William des Roches beats Roger, Lord Mortimer, one lance to none.”

Bahorel swung off the horse and was instantly almost tackled by Feuilly as Combeferre and Joly pounded his back. “Easy,” Bahorel laughed, waving to the crowd. “Or else they’ll think it was the first time I’ve ever broken a lance.”

“But it  _is_  the first time you’ve broke a lance!” Joly noted, even as Feuilly continued yelling himself hoarse.

Shaking his head, Bahorel grinned broadly as he said, “No, no – William des Roches has broken hundreds of lances.”

Combeferre had stopped pounding on Bahorel’s back to frown at the sun. “Well, whether you’re master of hundreds of lances or not, you’re due in the sword ring soon, and if we want to make it over there, we should leave now.”

Bahorel followed him out of the lists, adjusting his armor as he went. Something did not feel right with his pauldron and he rolled his shoulder forward. “My armor’s loose,” he said in undertones to Joly, who looked concerned. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to get my arm up to block with it like this.”

Though Joly still looked concerned, as he shifted the paulron against Bahorel’s shoulder he noted, “Well, there’s not much we can do about it now. We’re overdue in the sword ring as we speak.”

“I should have just stuck to the joust,” Bahorel muttered, still shifting his shoulder as they walked. “I may be best at sword, but the money and prestige is bigger in the joust and it would give me more time to breathe between rounds.”

Combeferre frowned at Bahorel over his shoulder and promptly ran into a tall, broad man dressed in rather pricey-looking clothes. The man looked down his nose as Combeferre before turning his gaze to Bahorel. “Sir William des Roches?” Bahorel frowned and exchanged a glance with Joly before nodding. “I am Gueulemer.”

Bahorel’s frown deepened, wondering what the man wanted. “And I am overdue at the sword arena,” he said, hoping to side-step the man, who pressed his hand against Bahorel’s chest, stopping him in his path.

“I am afraid I must detain you,” he said, with a small, sharp smile, “on behalf of your herald.”

* * *

 

Bahorel was beginning to wonder if nakedness was Bossuet’s natural state of being as they stared at each other. To his credit, Bossuet did not look cowed or even embarrassed, his shoulders straight as he met Bahorel’s gaze squarely. Bahorel sighed and shook his head. “You were never robbed, were you?”

“Nor did I ever say I was,” Bossuet said lightly. “You assumed.”

Something tightened in Bahorel’s expression, and he crossed his arms in front of his chest. “So, what, do you have some sort of gambling problem?”

Bossuet shrugged. “You could say that, if you wanted, “ he said off-handedly. “Or you could say that I just happen to have the world’s worst luck. It started with losing my hair, and seems to have culminated with me constantly losing all of my clothing.”

The tall, thin and very dangerous-looking man standing next to Gueulemer cleared his throat. “As  _fascinating_  as this little exchange is, the reasons for your herald’s losses do not concern me. What concerns me is that he assured us that you, as his liege, would pay us what he owes.”

Bahorel switched his glare to the man, who did not shrink under his gaze. “And who are you?”

The man smiled and gave a mocking half-bow. “I am Babet, my lord, a humble pardoner and purveyor of religious relics.”

There were many things that Bahorel wanted to say to that, but he settled for exhaling sharply in an attempt to relieve some of his tension. “How much does he owe you?”

Babet’s grin was matched by Gueulemer’s as he interjected smoothly, “Ten gold coins.”

Bahorel turned sharply to glare at Bossuet, who at least looked slightly shamefaced now, and Joly growled, “Remember what I said about killing you in the most painful way that I can conceive of? Because I swear to God—”

“Joly.” Bahorel’s voice was quiet but the command was clear, and Joly fell quiet, though his eyes flashed dangerously. “What would you do if I were to refuse to pay?”

Gueulemer stepped forward, his grin widening. “On behalf of the Lord God, we will take it from his flesh so that he may understand that gambling is a sin.”

Bossuet smiled tightly at Gueulemer. “Gambling may be a sin, but it will be my ill fortune that costs me most in the end,” he muttered, looking back at Bahorel with something like desperation creeping into his expression. “Please, Bahorel.”

Joly sucked in a quick breath at the use of Bahorel’s real name and Bossuet quickly corrected himself. “Please, Sir William, help me in this instance, because I promise you that you will not regret it and I will repay you.”

Bahorel looked carefully at Bossuet, his expression as neutral as he could force it to be. There was a part of him that wanted to leave Bossuet to whatever punishment they would give him. He didn’t owe the man anything. And yet…and yet if it was possible for Bahorel to change his own stars, did that not mean that he had an obligation to try and help those who had been unable to do so? “I don’t have the money.” Bossuet flinched, and Bahorel quickly added, “But release him, give him back his clothes, and you will get it.”

Gueulemer and Babet exchanged glances, and then Gueulemer said crisply, “Done.”

* * *

 

“You lied.” Bahorel stated it as fact, his voice flat, not even looking over at Bossuet as they strode hurriedly towards the sword arena, where he was now markedly late.

Bossuet shrugged, almost unconcerned by the statement or the accusation. “Yes, I lied. I’m a writer, an orator. It’s what I do, giving the truth scope and defining it on a broader range to inspire the masses.” They arrived at the sword ring and he raised his voice to announce, “Behold, my Lord, Sir William des Roches, son of—”

“Too late,” the announcer said curtly, nodding at Bahorel as he stepped into the ring. “He’s already been announced.”

Bahorel took a deep breath as he stood in one corner of the arena, rolling his shoulder as he held his sword loosely in his other hand. The announcer continued, “The winner will land ten blows by sword, with Sir William to receive first.”

That was the only warning Bahorel received before his opponent charged him, and he only just raised his sword in time to stop himself from being cleaved in half. From there, it was all muscle-memory as Bahorel swung his own sword to parry the blows attempted against him. His opponent landed a single blow before Bahorel got his chance to return, swinging his sword with as much skill as he possessed, landing several blows in a row and driving his opponent back to his corner.

His breathing was heavy and his arms shook, but his sword did not waver as he brought it down again and again until he was announced as a victor. Even then, pulled back into his corner by Combeferre and Joly, he still felt stuck in the moment in battle, his fighting instincts still raging in full force, and it took a moment before he even realized that Bossuet was shouting, using the time now to announce Bahorel since he was not able to do so at the beginning of the match. “Behold, my lord William! Like a wind from Longué-Jumelles he has blown across the Channel in search of honor and glory, and we are swept away by the enormity of his strength and skill!”

The crowd was silent, staring at Bossuet as if not entirely sure what he was talking about; to be honest, Bahorel didn’t have much idea what Bossuet was on about either, but both were rescued from the embarrassment by Combeferre, who yelled, “Yeah!” out of the corner of his mouth.

Thankfully, the crowd took up the cheer, yelling and whooping for Bahorel, who grinned widely at them and raised his fist in victory.

From there, it seemed Bahorel was almost unstoppable that day, alternating between winning jousts and winning swordfights with a flare that had the crowds who had previously not known his name chanting it with unbridled enthusiasm. Every win felt to Bahorel like further conformation that this was what he had been made to do, that this was the right path for him.

Soon enough, he was champion of the sword, and had only to win in his remaining few jousts to tournament champion. Of course, that’s when the worst thing possible happened: the breastplate of his armor – Sir Geoffroi’s armor, really – cracked, and of course, they had no coins left to pay the blacksmith to repair it.

Bahorel’s pride was the one thing he was loathe to sacrifice, but he could not joust with broken armor, so he took the breastplate to each of the blacksmiths, making the same promise over and over, “Please – I cannot pay you now, but I promise I will.”

Over and over he was turned down until one of the blacksmiths told him gruffly, “You might try the farriess.”

Bahorel followed the man’s pointing to see a dark-haired woman, roughly his own age, pulling horseshoes from the fire. “A woman?” he asked, surprised more than anything.

The blacksmith shrugged. “Beggars can’t be choosers, m’lord.”

Shrugging, Bahorel crossed over to the woman farrier, who took one look at him and said curtly, “I don’t work for free.”

“And I can’t joust with broken armor,” Bahorel said, evenly.

The woman just shrugged, not looking up from what she was doing. “That’s your problem, not mine. Every droplet of sweat has a price to it.”

Bahorel stared at her for a moment, knowing that begging, pleading or cajoling was not going to work in this instance. This woman was as hard as the iron she worked with, and he felt a brief flash of admiration for her. Still, he needed someone to fix his armor, so he fell back on the only tactic available. “It’s just as well,” he said, feigning nonchalance. “They told me I was daft for even asking.”

Now the woman froze in place, her grip tightening on her hammer, and for a brief moment Bahorel regretted this course of action, since dying at the hammer of a female blacksmith was not really how he had planned on going out. But then she whirled to face him, something grim in her expression. “The other armorers?” she asked, a dangerous lilt to her voice. “Did they say I couldn’t do it because I’m a woman?”

“No,” said Bahorel quickly, quickly enough that she would think he was lying. “They said you were great with horseshoes but shit with armor.” He shrugged unconcernedly. “The fact that you were a woman wasn’t even mentioned.”

Something twisted on her face as the woman debated internally, and Bahorel held his breath, watching as she weighed the choice between doing it and proving the other armorers wrong, or not doing it for fear of not being paid. In the end, her pride won out, and she held out her hand for the breastplate. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

Bahorel let out a deep breath and smiled tentatively at her. “You really will be paid,” he assured her. “As soon as I have collected my winnings.” He held out his hand for her to shake. “I’m, um, I’m Sir William, by the way. Sir William des Roches.”

She looked at his hand as if confused why a knight would be offering to shake her hand, then shook it and said, “Go away, leave me to work a few moments if you want your armor repaired.”

Bahorel was taken aback for a moment, then held up his hands and laughed. “Very well. I will return shortly, farriess.”

As he turned to leave, she called to his retreating back, “You can call me Éponine.”


	4. Chapter 4

“My Lord, I will win this tournament for you!”

Jehan smiled wanly at the knight on his horseback who was looking hopefully up at where Jehan and Courfeyrac sat on the sidelines of the lists. A second knight reined his horse to a stop to shout out, “Nay, I will win it for you!”

Though the smile did not waver on Jehan’s face, he rolled his eyes and said in undertones to Courfeyrac, who was grinning broadly at the second knight, “Do you think they can promise me anything besides a tournament? Because my tastes to tend to run more towards the bedroom than the lists…”

“I don’t know, but if you don’t want them, I’ll gladly take the second knight,” Courfeyrac muttered, his eyes gleaming wickedly. “They spread their legs  _so nicely_  after they’ve been on a horse all day…”

Snickering slightly, Jehan smacked Courfeyrac’s shoulder and was just about to admonish him for such  _vulgar_  language when a herald dressed formally in the colors of his lord paused at the end of the aisle and gave him a deferential half-bow. “My Lord, may I present Count Montparnasse d’Anjou, winner of the joust in England and high champion at York?”

His lord, a dark-haired, pale, and attractive-looking man, stepped next to his herald, favoring Jehan with a smile as if Jehan was something he was going to eat. “All of which is forgotten when standing next to the most beautiful man in Christiandom,” he said smoothly, bowing in the courtly fashion to Jehan, his hand pressed against the immaculate front of his fashionable doublet.

Jehan bowed his head as if pretending to blush at Montparnasse’s words, when in reality he once again rolled his eyes. “My lord is too kind,” he said, his tone coy, “but surely I could never pretend to be as beautiful as my cousin, Prince Enjolras.”

Montparnasse studied Jehan carefully, his eyes coolly surveying him. “I would never speak an ill word against His Highness the Dauphin, but your beauty is more catching to my eye. And certainly I am no competition to His Grace, Duke Grantaire.”

“Indeed not,” Jehan said slyly, smirking when Montparnasse looked slightly taken aback, and after a moment, gestured for him to sit. “Do you only joust and make mock-war, Count Montparnasse? Or is real war your purview as well?”

Montparnasse took the offered seat readily. “I am the leader of the free companies. My army is in Southern England, for the moment.”

Courfeyrac coughed, “Full of himself” under his breath, and Jehan hid a smile. Sitting next to Count Montparnasse was going to make watching the joust interesting, one way or another.

Jehan took a deep breath, trying to figure out what to say to Montparnasse next. Luckily, the riders rode at that moment, so he was saved from having to speak until they clashes mid-lists. Then Montparnasse turned to Jehan, something almost savage in his grin. “What do you think of the joust?”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand all the rules,” Jehan said, honestly, for he didn’t. He had not been raised to be a knight, had been raised to marry a noble, and thus had not been trained on the finer points of barreling towards one’s opponent on horseback with a wooden stick. “It’s very abrupt.”

“Then I shall educate you,” Montparnasse said, eagerly, and a shiver seemed to go down Jehan’s spine at the slimy tone of his voice. “A match is three lances. One point is awarded for breaking a lance on a knight between the waist and the neck. Two points for breaking on the helmet. It’s difficult, see—” Jehan didn’t see, and honestly, didn’t care, but he nodded anyway, well aware of the silent laughter coming from Courfeyrac on his other side “—the helmet sweeps back and most blows glance off, leaving the lance unbroken. And three points for bearing a rider to the ground. Also, should you bear a rider to the ground, you win his horse.”

Jehan nodded slowly. “Do men die in the joust?” he asked, feeling that at this point watching a man die would be preferable to Montparnasse droning on.

Montparnasse cocked his head slightly as he looked at Jehan, and for the first time, Jehan felt that perhaps Montparnasse was really seeing  _him_ , rather than just his name and status. But then he nodded slowly, and Jehan deflated slightly. “The lance points are tipped, which blunts them. Of course, accidents happened.” He tipped an enormous wink to Jehan, who had to physically restrain himself from making a vomiting motion to Courfeyrac, who was not even trying to hide his laughter now. “I myself, Jean, have never been unhorsed.”

Though there were many things Jehan wanted to do, ranging from punching Montparnasse to just getting up and leaving, he instead faced Montparnasse squarely, raising his chin as he replied, “Nor have I.”

Montparnasse looked taken aback, but was saved from replying by the sudden whinny of a horse, and Jehan looked over to find the handsome knight from the church staring up at him, a genuine smile on his face. “Your name, Lord,” the knight called, and Jehan could not help but smile back. “I still need to hear it.”

“Sir Hunter,” Jehan said, sitting forward, more delighted than he cared to admit. “You persist.”

The knight just shrugged, stilling grinning, though his expression turned thoughtful. “Or perhaps angels have no names, only beautiful faces.”

Now Jehan blushed sincerely, and Montparnasse chose this moment to but in, his expression sour. “And you are?”

Switching his gaze from Jehan to Montparnasse, the knight seemed to freeze. “Well, I am, um…”

Montparnasse smiled cruelly, and Jehan’s own smile faded. “You’ve forgotten?” Montparnasse asked. “Or is your name Sir Um?”

The knight’s jaw tightened, and Jehan’s heart went out to him, especially for keeping his chin up in the face of such condescension. “My name is William. Sir William des Roches.”

“Mmm.” Montparnasse said, thoughtfully, his smirk growing. “Well, Sir William des Roches, tell me, is your armor an antique, or are you trying to start a new trend? If the latter is true, my grandfather will be overjoyed, able to wear his armor in public again.” Jehan tensed at the words, as did Sir William, his expression tightening. “And a shield. How quaint.”

Clearly, Sir William was not willing to listen to more. Instead, he took one last look at Jehan, who hoped he looked sympathetic, instead of just horrified, and kneed his horse away, barely disguised fury in his expression. Jehan himself was so angry and disgusted that he could not even think of words to say, especially when Montparnasse chuckled and said smugly, “Some of these poor country knights are little better than peasants.”

To be sure, these words were not far from what Jehan had said about Courfeyrac earlier, but there was a distinct difference — he and Courfeyrac were friends for one, and thus the joke was clearly understood, and additionally, Courfeyrac was more than able to defend himself, unlike Sir William, who rode back to his squires with a slump to his shoulders — and Jehan was so upset that he didn’t even pay attention to the herald announcing Sir William’s opponent, Sir Mabeuf. Still, he could not possibly be upset enough to ignore Sir William’s herald, who began by applauding the previous herald and telling him glibly, “Oh, you’re good, you’re very good.”

Jehan leaned forward, intrigued by the bald-headed herald, who grinned almost cheekily at the stands as he shouted, “My lord, my ladies,” before giving a mocking half-bow and turning to the peasants on the other side of the lists and adding, “and everybody else here  _not_  sitting on a cushion!” The crowd roared and Jehan found himself smiling, though Montparnasse looked offended. The bald-headed man took a moment, grinning at the crowd’s reaction, then held his hands up for silence. “Today you find yourselves equals, for you are all equally blessed; for I have the privilege, nay, the pleasure, of introducing you to a knight sired by knights, a knight who can trace his lineage back beyond Charlemagne.”

The herald had a way of speaking that seemed to draw people to him; certainly the crowd was hushed, and while Jehan was sure that half of the nobles were trying to figure out if they had been offended or not, the peasants too were quiet, hanging on the herald’s every word. “I first met him on top a mountain near Jerusalem, a proud soldier of the crusades, offering to God the sacrifice of the Saracen blood his sword had spilled. Next, he amazed me still further in Rome, where he rescued a parcel of orphans from being sold to their Ottoman uncle. In Greece, he worshiped at Apollo’s altar in Delphi to understand the eternal flame that not only burned there, but within his soul.”

The herald broke off there as if overcome by his own words, and Courfeyrac snorted. Jehan nudged Courfeyrac with his elbow, feeling as moved by the herald’s words as the herald had probably intended. Finally, the bald-headed man cleared his throat and gave the crowd a wide grin. “And now, without further gilding of the lily and with no further ado, I give to you: the spiller of Saracen blood, the protector of innocents, and the enforcer of our Lord God, the one, the only, Sir William des Roches!”

The crowd burst into enthusiastic cheers and the herald’s face split into a wide grin as he waved at everyone and shouted, “Thank you! I’ll be here all week!”

Back by Sir William, Combeferre’s grip tightened on the horse’s bridle as Bossuet jogged back in their direction. “Well, that was different,” he remarked calmly, though Joly seemed to be filled with fury at his side.

“It’s time we celebrated our differences,” Bossuet told him cheerfully, still grinning from the performance he just gave.

Joly just shot him an absolutely murderous look. “Just maybe not in public next time.”

Bossuet laughed and patted Joly’s shoulder. “Yes, I’m well aware you will beat me for it later, Master Physician.” He clambered onto the steps that Bahorel had taken to mount his horse, and patted Bahorel’s shoulder as well. “I got their attention,” he said, his voice serious. “Now go and win their hearts.”

He jumped off the stairs and Bahorel reined his horse to attention, ignoring Jehan and where he sat. Instead, he thundered down the lists as he always had, striking the other knight in the head while he took a lance right over his heart. As Combeferre pulled his horse to a stop, Bahorel asked eagerly, “Did he see? Did my lord see?”

“Where?” Combeferre asked distractedly, and when Bahorel lifted his chin towards where Jehan sat in the crowd, he snorted and shook his head. “Jesus, Bahorel, you aim too high.”

“If there’s another way to aim, I don’t know it,” Bahorel said, glancing back at Jehan, who seemed to be watching him intently. “Did he see me take the hit?”

Bossuet patted the horse’s neck as Combeferre just shook his head again. “Yes, he saw you take the hit,” Bossuet told him.

Bahorel grinned down at him. “Well, was he concerned by it?”

Though Bossuet rolled his eyes at Feuilly, who laughed silently, he told Bahorel sincerely, “His eyes welled up with tears. It was absolutely awful to witness.”

As Bahorel’s grin grew even wider, back in the stands, Montparnasse crossed his arms in front of his chest, a frown on his face. “Mabeuf has perfect technique,” he remarked to his herald, Claquesous, who nodded. “I’ve never seen him before.”

“Nor I,” Claquesous murmured, his gaze distant. “But this des Roches. His technique is rudimentary, his style nonexistent, and yet — he’s fearless.”

Jehan perked up at the words spoken, his expression carefully neutral as he asked, “Fearless? How so?”

Montparnasse’s scowl deepened and he jerked his chin towards Sir William. “The slit in a helmet’s visor is narrow, but splinters can penetrate. Most knights raise their chins at the last instant for that reason. You lose sight of your opponent, but you protest your eyes. This Sir William doesn’t.”

His voice sounded so sour on the last word that Jehan could not help but smile, and he directed his grin at Sir William. “He keeps his eye on the target,” he said, more to himself and a little towards Courfeyrac than anyone else. “He is a true hunter.”

* * *

 

Though Bahorel was all set to tilt against Sir Mabeuf again, Mabeuf’s herald indicated a request for a meeting, and Bahorel rode out to the center of the lists, meeting Sir Mabeuf, who opened his helmet visor, smiling tightly at Bahorel. “Sir William,” Mabeuf winced, “I’m through. But I, uh, I’ve never  _not_  finished before, and I wish to keep my honor intact.”

Bahorel nodded, for who was he to try and dispute Mabeuf’s honor? Instead, he reined his horse back to the start. When the flag dropped, Bahorel spurred his horse into a canter, slowing as he approached Mabeuf, and instead of striking, raised his lance in a salute. Mabeuf nodded at him gratefully, and Bahorel nodded back before turning his horse to gallop back to the start.

“A draw,” Claquesous said, sounding surprised. “And Mabeuf is hurt.”

Montparnasse’s scowl turned contemplative, and he leaned forward. “Mabeuf withdraws. des Roches advances. Why didn’t des Roches finish him?”

Jehan sat forward as well, his smile soft as he watched Sir William return to his spot. “He shows mercy,” he murmured, as much intrigued by the concept as anything.

Montparnasse just snorted derisively. “Then he shows his weakness. That’s all mercy is.”

* * *

 

Late that night, Bahorel sighed deeply, leaning back against his makeshift pillow of hay, since any better accommodations had been abandoned, given the money they now owned for Bossuet’s debts and his own armor. Combeferre sighed deeply and nudged Bahorel from where he lay next to him. “Bahorel, go to sleep.”

“I can’t,” Bahorel sighed, and he couldn’t, not really, his heart stuck on the thought that Jehan had watched him, had seen him take a lance to the head, and had also watched him be merciful. If that did not win his lord’s heart, than what possibly could? “Love has given me wings, and so I must fly. I can’t explain it. He makes me feel like a poet.”

From Bahorel’s other side, Feuilly snorted loudly. “You may feel like a poet, but you sound like an idiot.”

Joly chimed in logically. “You don’t even know his name.”

“His name…” Bahorel sighed again. “His name is Eros, Cupid, take your pick. His name means love, and that is all that matters.”

Combeferre just sighed again. “Love weakens the heart,” he told Bahorel, his voice serious, more serious than the topic at hand perhaps demanded. “And without your heart, you cannot win.”

While Bahorel was busy sighing over Jehan, the man in question was busy picking out his clothing for the second day of tourney. “What think you of this doublet?” Jehan asked Courfeyrac, who was once again lounging on Jehan’s bed, going through the correspondences one of the castle boys had just delivered.

“It’s foul and I hate it,” Courfeyrac said without looking up. “Count Montparnasse sends word. He says that he will win this tournament for you.”

Jehan snorted and traded the doublet in his hand for a different one. “Montparnasse has won many tournaments. He wins them for himself and for his own honor, so it’s nothing to say he wins them for me.”

Courfeyrac shrugged, still flipping through notes. “He wishes to speak to you.”

“And not to hear a word I say,” Jehan sighed, picking up a third doublet of bright cerulean and admiring its color against his fair skin. “Montparnasse wants his partner silent, and less a partner than anything.”

Shrugging, Courfeyrac rolled onto his stomach, propping his chin on his hand as he looked at Jehan. “Would you have Sir William des Roches win this tournament for you?” he asked innocently.

“No!” Jehan protested instantly, though a small smile came to his face at the thought of that, and he blushed slightly. “And he is the only knight who has not promised to do so.” He turned in front of his mirror, admiring himself and the doublet from all angles before admitting quietly, “Sir William des Roches…I would have him win my heart.”


	5. Chapter 5

When Bahorel walked out onto the lists the next day, it was to the crowd chanting, “Montparnasse! Montparnasse!” over and over again. He adjusted his vambraces and tried not to scowl at the overwhelming sound. Count Montparnasse was just another opponent, and after yesterday’s exchange, Bahorel knew that he had to beat him, and so forced his features into a grim smile.

Feuilly, on the other hand, scowled openly at the crowd, his foul mood apparent. “How lovely,” he sniped, playing with the strap of the horse’s saddle.

“Count Montparnasse,” Joly said contemplatively, patting the horse’s flank as he squinted down the lists where Montparnasse was also getting ready. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him lose.”

Combeferre pulled on the horse’s bridle to move him into place, holding the horse steady as Bahorel mounted. “No, but if Bahorel defeats him you’ll see if firsthand,” he said, a little grimly, also staring down at Montparnasse.

“If?” Bahorel repeated, grinning down at Combeferre. “Have a little more faith in me, would you? After all—”

He was cut off by Bossuet, who approached with the dark-haired man Bahorel had previously seen yesterday sitting next to the handsome man that Bahorel couldn’t get out of his head. “My liege!” Bossuet called as they approached, and Bahorel instantly slid off the horse to meet them. Bossuet gestured from Bahorel to the man, who smiled warmly at him. “Sir William, this is Courfeyrac.”

Over Bahorel’s shoulder, Combeferre was openly staring at Courfeyrac, who fluttered his eyelashes at him and gave a little wave that made Combeferre blushed scarlet. Then Courfeyrac turned to Bahorel and gave a short bow. “My lord bids you wear this as a token,” he said, his voice light and lilting, and handed Bahorel a scrap of bright green silk embroidered with a single golden flower.

Bahorel took the silk handkerchief with almost trembling fingers, tucking it under his armor where he could wear it close to his heart, clichéd though that may be. He gave Courfeyrac a small, awkward bow in return, his heart speeding up at the thought that his lord would think of him highly enough to send a token for him to wear. He had only heard of such things in fairy tales, the stories spun by the peasants of what life must be like for the nobles.

Now he was here, and living what he had only dreamed of, and if nothing else did, this truly sent the message home that he was changing his stars. So it was with a catch in his voice that he told Courfeyrac roughly, “Of course. Thank you.”

Courfeyrac’s smile softened slightly, and he inclined his head. “He also told me to tell you: his name is Jehan.”

“Jehan,” Bahorel repeated, feeling the grin spread across his face. Courfeyrac nodded, his smile also growing, and with one last fleeting look at Combeferre, took his leave, heading back to where Jehan sat in the stands. Bahorel felt as if he might float away, and positively beamed at Feuilly, who rolled his eyes.

Bossuet nudged Combeferre, who was staring after Courfeyrac with an open mouth, and if possible, Combeferre flushed even darker. “Concentrate,” he snapped at Bahorel, helping him back on to the horse. “This is more important than some pretty little lord.”

“You’re one to talk,” Feuilly snorted, though he quickly quieted at the look on Combeferre’s face.

Still, once back on the horse, Bahorel instantly slipped back into tournament mode, his pounding heart calming and his breathing becoming calm and even as he closed the visor of his helmet. Then the flag dropped and he was off, the horse pounding down the lists as he took aim for Montparnasse, who seemed almost relaxed as he rode towards Bahorel. They met in a clash of splintering lances, and Bahorel almost felt knocked off his guard as he wheeled around to head back to his side. “I can’t breathe!” he told Joly, who looked concerned as he adjusted the straps on Bahorel’s breastplate to help him breathe easier.

“God, he hits like a hammer,” Bahorel told Combeferre as he took the horse’s reins. “It’s incredible. I’ve never felt anything like it.”

Combeferre just grunted, still ruffled from earlier. “He’s not perfect, though. He aims high on your chest. If you roll your shoulder back when he strikes, his blow may glance to your right.”

Bahorel stared at him as if that was the worst advice he had ever been given. “But that’s only if he strikes on the right. If he strikes on the left with another blow like that, I’ll be obliterated!”

“Well, I never said it wasn’t a gamble,” Combeferre sighed before sending Bahorel back down the lists.

This time, Combeferre’s advice wouldn’t have mattered. Montparnasse’s lance didn’t break against Bahorel’s chest at all, whether right or left side. Instead, it hit Bahorel’s head with so much force that it ripped the helmet from his head and in the same instant, plunged Bahorel into darkness.

* * *

 

_Bahorel was a boy, perhaps no older than seven. Though his parents were peasants who lived on the outskirts of Paris, Monsieur Toiture, Bahorel’s father had brought him in to see the parade of knights for the great tournament in Paris, the world championship where all the greatest knights would compete._

_From since he could remember, Bahorel had wanted to be a knight, growing up at his father’s knee on stories of knights and princes and princesses. He scorned the latter, considering the idea of love to be “sissy stuff”, but relished in the idea of being able to hit anyone anytime he wanted, just because he was a knight._

_So being here was amazing to Bahorel, who stared around with wide eyes at the knights and their prancing horses going by. His father had placed him on top of the stocks, though the man currently locked up in them did not seem too happy about that. “Someday, I’ll be a knight,” Bahorel pronounced solemnly, his jaw clenched in a determined fashion as he watched the knights go by._

_The man in the stocks snorted, twisting to look up at Bahorel as best as he could. “A thatcher’s son, a knight? You might as well try to change the stars!”_

_He cackled, though it quickly turned into a hacking cough. Bahorel, however, looked at his father, his lower lip sticking out in a pout. “Can it be done, Father?” he asked in a low, determined sort of voice. “Can a man change the stars?”_

_Monsieur Toiture pulled Bahorel closer to him and ruffled his hair affectionately. “Yes, Bahorel, if he believes enough, a man can do anything.”_

* * *

 

Bahorel awoke to Joly slapping his cheeks probably a little more violently than he needed to, his eyes only inches from Bahorel’s, which in and of itself was enough to jolt him into wakefulness. “Are you alright?” Joly asked urgently.

Before Bahorel could answer, Montparnasse reined in his horse next to Bahorel’s, smirking at him as Bahorel blinked groggily up at him. “I hope you gain your bearing soon, Sir William,” Montparnasse said, his glee barely contained. “Face me again when you are worthy.”

Feuilly and Joly both snarled at that, but Bossuet stopped then with a firm, “Go and see to Bahorel” before applauding – albeit mockingly – for Montparnasse and calling, “Well done, my lord! A noble victory.”

Montparnasse, however, lowered his broken lance to scoop up the scrap of silk that Jehan had given Bahorel, loosened from his armor with the blow Montparnasse landed. His expression was neutral as he trotted over to where Jehan sat, lifting his lance to return the scrap of silk. “My lord, I believe this is yours,” he said smoothly as Jehan took the silk, stone-faced.

Then Montparnasse smiled in almost savage victory as he lifted his lance to the cheering crowd.

* * *

 

Bahorel’s face was as stony as Jehan’s had been as the announcer called loudly, “Champion for Sword on Foot, William des Roches!” He stepped forward automatically to receive the gilded trophy that was his reward, and then stepped back into line, trying to control his expression as the announcer continued, “And for the mounted joust and tournament champion, Montparnasse, Count of Anjou.” He stepped to the side of the champions and bowed low to the stands. “I present to you your champions!”

As the crowd cheered wildly, Bahorel leaned in towards Montparnasse, telling him in a fierce undertone, “The next time I face you, Count Montparnasse, you will look up at me from the flat of your back.”

Montparnasse did not look perturbed by the threat in the slightest; in fact, he looked amused, smirking at Bahorel as he told him in his oily voice, “Please. You have been weighed, you have been measured, and you have been found wanting.”

Bahorel watched him walk away with narrowed eyes. Feuilly grabbed the trophy from his hand and kissed it excitedly. “If you keep winning in the sword, we’ll be rich!”

“I’m not going to compete in the sword again,” Bahorel told him, raising his voice to tell Combeferre, “I’m not competing in the sword anymore. Joust only.”

Combeferre shook his head, baffled. “But it’s your best event!” he protested.

Bahorel shook his head as well, his eyes blazing as he snapped, “No, it will be tournament champion or nothing at all for me.”

His anger sustained him through the monotony of moving all the supplies back to their tents; his anger caused him to brood while Joly and Feuilly bickered; and his anger boiled over when Gueulemer and Babet turned up for the money he owed them. With all the strength he possessed, he broke off a piece of the golden trophy and threw it with more force than was necessary at Gueulemer’s head. “Ten florians,” he said curtly. “That should do.”

Gueulemer favored Bossuet with a grin. “It’s sixes and sevens tonight, Bossuet, if you’re feeling lucky.”

“Begone, I’m done with you,” Bahorel said primly, though his eyes flashed. “Just know that my luck has turned, and your luck may turn yet in time. I hope when it does there is someone there to be as kind and understanding to you as you were to me.” He gave them a most courtly bow as their smiles turned to scowls, and they swept away.

Bahorel tossed the trophy to Éponine. “Here, farriess, take what we owe you.”

Instead of breaking off a piece of the trophy, Éponine turned it over in her hands, glancing curiously at Bahorel, who stared right back at her, not in the mood for whatever she was about to say. “Your armor,” she said slowly, surprising him. “It wasn’t made for you, was it?”

Scowling, Bahorel glanced down at his armor and shrugged. “What of it?”

“I could make you new armor.” Bahorel was taken aback by the sudden passion in her voice. “I could make you such armor that you wouldn’t even know you wore it, armor that was stronger and fit you well.”

Bahorel’s scowl deepened. “And how much would that cost me?”

She shrugged. “Just take me as far as London.”

Bahorel didn’t even glance around for his friends’ opinions. His headache was almost blinding and he did not have time to deal with this. “We travel alone,” he said shortly. “Take your gold and go.”

Éponine’s expression tightened, and she wordlessly broke off a hunk from the trophy before tossing the remnants back at Bahorel’s face. He barely managed to catch it before it hit him, and instantly tossed it to Feuilly. “Get what you can out of that. The rest of us will pack camp.”

Combeferre and Joly exchanged glances, and after an unspoken argument, Joly sighed and braved the question, “Why are we leaving so soon?”

“The tournament in Warwick starts in a week,” Bahorel snapped, his temper getting the better of him. “If we leave now, we can walk most of the way and save the horse.”

He lifted the horse’s saddle to put it in the wagon, but to his surprise, Bossuet grabbed it from his hands and set it back on the ground. “No, you have to go to the banquet tonight,” Bossuet told him sternly. “You have to make an appearance, dance a little, just like the other champions.”

Bahorel snorted and grabbed the saddle again. “What, to have Montparnasse laugh at me again? No!”

Bossuet snatched the saddle back. “Yes!”

“No!” Bahorel snapped, grabbing it back.

“Yes!”

“No!”

“Yes!”

“No!”

There was no telling how long the argument might have continued were it not for Courfeyrac appearing around the corner of the tent and favoring Combeferre with a smile that left Combeferre, usually so eloquent, tongue-tied for a moment. Then he recovered enough to clear his throat loudly, causing Bahorel and Bossuet to finally glance over. Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow at them but made no comment on what he had just witnessed, instead saying calmly, “My lord would know the color of your lord’s tunic tonight.”

“His what?” Combeferre asked, a little vacantly, still staring at Courfeyrac, who laughed lightly.

“His tunic,” Courfeyrac repeated with a wide grin. “My lord would know so that he can dress to match.”

Bossuet and Bahorel exchanged glanced, Bossuet slightly exasperated, Bahorel baffled, and Bossuet stepped forward and cleared his throat. “We regret to inform your lord that he won’t actually be attending—”

Bahorel quickly interrupted. “Herald, do not answer questions you don’t know the answers to!”

Though Bossuet shot Bahorel a look that would have scalded a cat, he managed a short bow and muttered, “Absolutely, my lord,” before stepping back.

Of course, this left the question to Bahorel, who completely blanked on any sort of answer. He looked hopelessly at Combeferre, who was still staring at Courfeyrac. “Um, Squire, answer him. What, uh, what color is my tunic tonight?”

Combeferre looked around wildly, flushing scarlet, and his mouth opened and closed much like a fish as he scrambled for an answer. His eyes fell on the tent that Bahorel was standing in front of, and he managed a small smile. “It’s scarlet,” he said firmly, glancing back at Courfeyrac. “Trimmed in a sort of pale red. With silver fastenings.”

“I will tell my lord,” Courfeyrac said, bowing to Bahorel, who only just managed to return the bow, and then grinning again at Combeferre, who went roughly the same color as the tent.

Then he was gone, and Bahorel all but collapsed against Joly, who looked at him with confusion. “This is a disaster!” Bahorel groaned, burying his face in Joly’s shoulder.

“No, I think the tunic will come out quite nicely,” Combeferre said cheerfully, stepping over to the tent and running his fingers over the fabric.

Bahorel groaned even louder, and stood upright again, a pinched, almost pained expression on his face. “That’s not the disaster, Combeferre,” he said, hesitating before adding in a strangled voice, “I don’t know how to dance.”


	6. Chapter 6

“And bow to your partner,” Bossuet started, leaning against the wall of the stable next to where Combeferre was working on Bahorel’s new tunic. “…And your partner should curtsy…” Joly, who was trading on and off with Feuilly as Bahorel’s test partner, rolled his eyes and gave a short half-bow. Bossuet tsked loudly. “No, I said  _curtsy_ , Jolllly. I know basic instructions are difficult for you, but—”

“Must I really put up with this?” Joly asked loudly while Feuilly sniggered from where he was perched on the railing, stroking the horse’s nose. “Bahorel knows damn well what a curtsy looks like, so can we get on to the actual dancing?”

Bossuet tsked again. “Ordinarily I’d say yes, but since you seem perfectly incapable of even the most basic dance perhaps it’s better that we start at the beginning…”

Joly made a low growling noise in the back of his throat. “If it’s so important then why aren’t  _you_  in here dancing with fair Bahorel?”

Now Bossuet grinned widely at him. “Well, you see, I  _would_ , but alas, I am busy trying to keep rhythm for you lot with two left feet, so unfortunately Bahorel is stuck with a git like you for a dance partner.”

Joly launched himself at Bossuet, and would have probably done him injury were it not for Bahorel grabbing him around the middle. Feuilly almost fell off the rail from laughing so hard, and without even looking up from his sewing, Combeferre said calmly, “Look, would the two of you either kiss or punch each other and get it over with so the rest of us can go back to working on Bahorel’s dancing?”

Rounding on Bahorel, who had made the mistake of laughing, though he quickly let Joly go when he saw the look on his face, Joly hissed, “I’m doing this for you, you ungrateful—”

He was cut off by a low whistle, and all four turned to find Éponine bringing in fresh horseshoes for the horses. She stared back with a neutral expression, though she raised her eyebrows at them, particularly at how close Joly and Bahorel were still standing. Bossuet scowled at her. “What, do you think you can do better?”

“Of course I can,” she said easily, setting the horseshoes down and crossing her arms in front of her chest.

Bahorel pushed Joly away from him and crossed his arms as well. “Good. Will you show us, then?”

Éponine considered him for a long moment. “No.”

“No?” Bahorel repeated, incredulous, glaring at her. “What do you mean, no?”

She smiled almost viciously. “I thought a knight might not recognize the word. No, I won’t show you.”

Bahorel glanced helplessly around, and Combeferre frowned at him. “Look, if I’m going through all this effort to sew you a new tunic, you’d best learn to dance.” He jabbed his needle towards Éponine, who was smiling a little smugly. “Now ask her nicely.”

After taking a deep breath and counting silently to ten, Bahorel turned back to Éponine with a genuine if strained smile on his face. “I’m sorry, Éponine. I was hoping that you would perhaps do us the absolute honor of showing us how to dance. Please.”

Éponine pursed her lips slightly, and Joly and Feuilly chimed in simultaneously, “Please!”

“Take me with you as far as London, let me make you new armor, and I’ll teach you to dance.” Bahorel opened his mouth to protest and she held up a hand. “My offer is final.”

Bahorel closed his mouth, swallowed, and shrugged. “She’s got you by the balls, mate,” Feuilly muttered, and Bossuet chuckled darkly.

“Very well,” Bahorel said, a little ruffled. “Dancing first, armor later.”

Éponine’s smile was almost blinding. “Never thought I’d hear a knight say that,” she said cheerfully. “But very well. We’ll get down to it. And after that, we’ll do something with your hair.”

Bahorel scowled. “What’s wrong with my hair?” he asked, indignant, and Éponine just laughed.

* * *

 

A few hours later, freshly dressed in his new tunic with his hair pulled back and tamed with more pomade than Bahorel had known was possible to apply to one head, Bahorel followed a servant into the castle’s great hall where the tournament banquet would be held. He smoothed his hands down the front of his tunic, mentally reminding himself to thank Combeferre once again for doing a truly exemplary job turning a tent into a tunic.

Then he caught sight of Jehan and froze in place.

Jehan was breathtaking as always, though somehow more so this night than when Bahorel had seen him previously. His auburn hair was braided in an intricate plait, keeping it out of his face and giving Bahorel an even better view of those wide, clear green eyes. His lips quirked into a smile as he saw Bahorel, and he started towards him. It was only then that Bahorel noticed exactly what Jehan was wearing.

Instead of a tunic, instead of anything really familiar to Bahorel, who was admittedly more used to peasant fashions than anything, Jehan wore a bizarre-looking coat of some variety, long-sleeved with silver fastenings and hitting mid-thigh. The top was fairly fitted, the bottom loose and flowing, and as Jehan had paired this with a pair of hose, any sudden movements without proper consideration could cause quite the scandal if Jehan had neglected a codpiece.

The entire ensemble was a rich blue with gold and silver brocade, and Bahorel had to admit that Jehan looked rather stunning. He could’ve chalked up the bizarre outfit to the fancies of nobility were it not for the odd looks that Jehan was receiving from other nobles. Still, Bahorel did not care, and it took him a long moment to recover enough to bend into a quick bow. “My lord,” he muttered, blushing as Jehan reached out to twine their fingers together as he, too, bowed.

“Sir William,” Jehan returned, smiling widely at him at he tugged him towards the table. “You look absolutely fantastic.”

Bahorel glanced over at him and blushed even deeper. “And you look…you look…”

He couldn’t come up with words to describe it, but luckily, Jehan took this as a compliment. “It defies words, doesn’t it?” he asked happily, twirling a little for Bahorel, who laughed. “It’s of Persian design. They wear it when riding, or so I am told, and call it a  _scaramangion_ , which is a mouthful even for me.” He sat next to Bahorel, his eyes shining with excitement. “I just find the East so fascinating, don’t you?”

Since Bahorel had never been further east than Provence, he merely nodded and made a small noise of agreement, though he also raised an eyebrow at Jehan. “I thought we were meant to match this evening.”

Jehan raised an eyebrow as well. “I think we make quite a pair, and that’s matching enough for me, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely, my lord,” Bahorel told him, risking impropriety by bringing Jehan’s hand up to his mouth and kissing his knuckles.

To his surprise, Jehan ducked his head and blushed, and Bahorel grinned at him. They were interrupted by someone clearing his throat, and looked up to see Count Montparnasse glowering down at them, dressed resplendently in a sharp black tunic that only seemed to emphasize his pale, fierce features. “My lords,” he said coldly. His eyes lingered unpleasantly on Bahorel, who could not help but flush under the scrutiny. “Sir William. How wonderful of you make such a fashion statement this evening. Be careful not to stand too close to the servants or you might be mistaken for one.”

Bahorel’s grip on Jehan’s hand tightened, and bit back his retort, not wanting to upset high society too much. Luckily, Jehan had no such qualms, tossing his head before asking coolly, “And you, Count Montparnasse, are you moonlighting as an executioner? It would explain both your outfit and your countenance.” When Montparnasse just gaped at him, Jehan stood, pulling Bahorel up with him. “Come, Sir William, let us dance.”

Bahorel could not help but throw a gleeful grin over his shoulder at Montparnasse, who still looked stunned, and he chuckled slightly as Jehan pulled him out on to the dance floor. “Masterfully done, my lord,” Bahorel said with a grin.

Jehan shrugged. “It was nothing,” he said lightly, giving Bahorel a sideways glance. “But will you not call me by my name? You were so eager to learn it, and yet I’ve not heard its sweetness from your mouth.”

Flushing slightly, Bahorel shrugged and looked away. “It just seemed a little…familiar. Too familiar.” The words weren’t quite right – how could Bahorel explain that for all his desire to learn Jehan’s name he had never considered  _using_  it, that his training from when young to refer to those of a higher class in a respectful way was hard to break, even in – or perhaps especially in – this instance?

Jehan frowned and reached out to cup Bahorel’s cheek, turning his head slightly so that they were facing each other. Then, after only a brief moment of hesitation, he leaned in and kissed Bahorel lightly on the lips. Bahorel froze before kissing him back, hands settling on Jehan’s hips as if they had always belonged there. Jehan pulled back slightly, his lips pink and _delectable_ , and it took all of Bahorel’s effort not to capture them in a kiss again. “Is that familiar enough for you?” Jehan asked, a little playfully, and Bahorel laughed.

“I believe that should do it,” he said, and did kiss Jehan again before sweeping his lips up to Jehan’s ear to whisper, “Jehan.”

Neither noticed that Montparnasse was watching this entire exchange from the edge of the dance floor, a deadly expression on his face.

* * *

 

The memory of those kisses and the others they shared that night was enough to sustain Bahorel to Warwick, enough to keep him sighing and swooning like a lovesick puppy even as Éponine fitted him with new armor, armor that she claimed was just as strong as his old armor while being many times lighter. “I found a new way to heat the steel,” she told a skeptical Combeferre while Bahorel just hummed contentedly to himself. “Trust me – he will enjoy all the benefits of increased movement without sacrificing the strength of the metal.”

Personally, Bahorel thought that he could have been struck with a boulder and would not have noticed. At least, until he actually was struck by a boulder in the form of a test of the armor’s strength, which he did notice, even if it didn’t hurt. Still, it refocused him, and while the memory of those kisses were enough to get him to Warwick, the memory of the look on Montparnasse’s face would be what got him through the tournament.

Well, that and some well-timed information from his friends. As Bahorel was preparing to take on an opponent, he asked Feuilly, “What’s the name of that knight?”

Feuilly squinted down the lists at the knight in question. “Constant d’Aubigné. He’s raised the taxes on his land three times this year to pay for tournament.”

Joly on Bahorel’s other side chimed in, “His people starve while he sits in banquet.” Bahorel’s jaw clenched and he slammed his helmet shut before thundering down the lists toward d’Aubigné, unhorsing him in one clean move. Joly chortled and he and Feuilly grinned unabashedly at each other. “Probably true, right?”

Still, it was Montparnasse that Bahorel wanted to face and to beat, and so he went to one of Montparnasse’s jousts to watch and learn what his potential weaknesses could be. Claquesous, Montparnasse’s herald, tried to take a leaf out of Bossuet’s book and introduce his lord with considerable pomp, but since Bossuet planted himself directly in Calquesous’s line of sight and spent the entire speech making faces at him, he stumbled slightly and accidentally referred to Montparnasse as “Defender of his Enormous Manhood”, which caused the crowd to titter.

“Mabeuf looks fit,” Bahorel remarked to Combeferre, nodding at Montparnasse’s opponent. “This should be a good match.”

However, just as Mabeuf’s herald began introducing his lord, Claquesous, who was deep in conversation with one of Montparnasse’s squires, ran back to the center of the lists to cover Montparnasse’s shield on the stands. “Montparnasse is withdrawing!” Bahorel gaped, staring at the covered shield.

Combeferre ducked under the rail to stare down at Montparnasse, who raised his lance in a salute to Mabeuf. “A withdraw like that can mean only one thing,” he said, a little grimly. “Royalty.”

* * *

 

Bahorel swung onto his horse, about to take his own turn against Mabeuf, when Bossuet sprinted over. “Wait!” Bossuet shouted, panicked. “Wait! Mabeuf is Enjolras, the Golden Prince himself, Dauphin and future King of France.”

“He’s disguised so that he can compete,” Feuilly said, frowning.

Bahorel loosened his grip on the reins, expression contemplative. “Just like me.”

Bossuet shook his head, still anxious. “He has never met an enemy without victory, has never attacked an army he could not defeat.”

Snorting, Joly nudged him none too gently in the ribs. “We’re French, Laigle, we know who he is.”

“You must withdraw,” Combeferre said calmly, shoving Bossuet towards the lists. “Go tell them, before they drop the flag!” Bossuet scurried off and Combeferre turned back to Bahorel. “Here, give me the lance.”

Instead, Bahorel kneed the horse forward, closing his visor as he rode toward Enjolras, who rode forward as well. They met in the middle, both lances breaking on the other’s chest.

“Are you mad!” Combeferre shouted as he grabbed the reins from Bahorel. “You just knowingly endangered a member of the royal family!”

Bahorel pulled his helmet off and shook out his hair. “He knowingly endangers himself.”

The tournament official called the match a draw, and Bahorel rode out to the center to meet Enjolras, who pulled his horse to a stop and inclined his head toward Bahorel. “Well fought, Sir William.”

Bahorel inclined his head as well, his voice carefully neutral as he replied, “And you also, Prince Enjolras.”

For a moment, Enjolras stared at him through the slit in his helmet. Then, to Bahorel’s surprise, he laughed and pulled his helmet off, his signature blond curls spilling out as he did, ignoring the crowd, which gasped at his appearance. “You knew me?” he asked, his blue eyes sharp, and he grinned when Bahorel nodded. “And yet still you rode.”

Bahorel could not help but smile back. “It’s not in me to withdraw.”

“Nor me,” Enjolras said, his tone suddenly serious, and his eyes swept over the crowd. “Though it does happen.” He turned his attention back to Bahorel, smiling again. “Good luck with the tournament. I shall be watching you, Sir William.”

* * *

 

That night, Enjolras was still thinking about what happened. “An interesting thing happened to me today,” he said off-handedly once the servants were dismissed and he had slid under the coverlet next to Grantaire, glad for once that their status allowed them lodgings in the castle rather than in a tent, though normally he would have protested at any special treatment.

Grantaire hummed thoughtfully. “Mm. This wouldn’t have anything to do with the knight who tilted against you instead of withdrawing?” At Enjolras’s startled look, Grantaire laughed lightly, leaning in to kiss him. “Some of your men are just as loyal to me as to you. Though I believe we talked about you knowingly endangering yourself and how I shall have to  _punish_  you for it…”

Enjolras scowled. “I’ll have their heads for this,” he muttered darkly, though he couldn’t resist kissing Grantaire back.

"No you won’t," Grantaire said cheerfully. "You’ll probably promote them for being so egalitarian." Enjolras rolled his eyes but didn’t dispute that, though when he lay back against the pillow, his expression was troubled. Grantaire sighed and rolled over to kiss the furrows in between his brows. "Can’t solving the problems of the kingdom wait until tomorrow?" Grantaire whispered, sliding his hand down Enjolras’s side. "I was thinking of a more pleasant way to spend the night…"

Though Enjolras still looked concerned, he couldn’t but laugh when Grantaire added, “You know I hate when you think about other men when we’re in bed together…”, and when he flipped Grantaire onto his back and kissed him, all thoughts of Sir William des Roches fled from his mind.


	7. Chapter 7

After tilting against Prince Enjolras, Bahorel easily bested the rest of his opponents that day and the next, but the taste of victory was not sweet, marred by the fact that Montparnasse, the only knight Bahorel had wanted to beat, had withdrawn. Bahorel might be tournament champion, but it was a hollow victory.

As such, his temper got the better of him, so that when the tournament official announced, “The winner of the mounted joust and tournament champion, Sir William des Roches!”, Bahorel could barely manage a smile as he stepped forward to accept his trophy.

“You’re tournament champion!” Feuilly told him excitedly, wrenching the trophy from Bahorel’s hands and kissing it, looking delightedly down at his own reflection in the polished gold.

“I’m not champion until I defeat Montparnasse,” Bahorel snapped, stomping off towards the far end of the lists, his mind already on the hundreds of ways that he wanted to defeat Montparnasse, to crush him and beat him and hit him with a lance so hard that he would tumble from his horse and never be able to get up again…

Very few would define Bahorel as calm under the best of circumstances, but he was at least normally easy-going about most things (if one considered a natural proclivity towards destruction for the sake of stress relief to be easy-going). But when he was in a temper, such as the temper he was in now, he was irascible to the point of being irrational, snapping at the smallest things and liable to punch anyone who was too close.

All of his friends knew this, and so stayed well behind him as he marched off the field; Jehan, however, had yet to encounter Bahorel in such a mood, and when Feuilly saw Jehan waiting for Bahorel at the end of the lists, he winced and nudged Combeferre in the ribs (Combeferre was too busy waving at Courfeyrac to notice and to head off any potential disaster).

“Sir William,” Jehan called, leaning against the wood rail, his outfit perfectly normal today if not for its color, a bright orange that clashed splendidly with the color of his hair.

Bahorel barely looked up when Jehan called his name and grunted in acknowledgement, intent on storming past him without having to talk. Jehan, however, was not deterred, falling into step next to him. “I’ve come to see what you’re planning on wearing to banquet tonight.”

The absolute last thing on Bahorel’s mind was banquet, sitting and feasting in the same room as Montparnasse, who was just asking for a fist to his face. How was he supposed to care what color tunic he wore when all he wanted was to hunt Montparnasse down and beat him up and down the lists? He shook his head impatiently. “Nothing,” he said, flippant, hoping it would deter further conversation.

Instead, Jehan smirked at him, raising one eyebrow in a way that would have been downright lecherous were Bahorel paying it any mind. “But if you wear nothing, then I will have to dress to match you. That could cause quite the sensation indeed, don’t you think?”

Stopping in his tracks so suddenly that Jehan almost walked into him, Bahorel scowled and turned to glare at him. “Don’t you ever get tired of putting on clothes?”

Bossuet cleared his throat and said in an undertone, “My lord, I believe he’s talking about taking them off—”

Both Jehan and Bahorel ignored him; instead, Jehan turned to face him, something tightening in his face. “A flower is only as good as its petals,” Jehan said smoothly, though there was a coldness in his tone that had not previously been there.

Bahorel snorted. “A flower is good for nothing,” he informed Jehan, who merely stared back at him.

Despite the obvious tension radiating between Jehan and Bahorel, behind them Courfeyrac and Combeferre were having their own conversation. “Will you accompany your lord to banquet tonight?” Courfeyrac asked, his voice low.

Combeferre looked taken aback by the question. “My lord, uh, doesn’t normally take a, uh, a squire to banquet,” he stuttered, turning bright red.

“Good,” Courfeyrac said, practically purring as he leaned in closer to whisper into Combeferre’s ear, “my lord does not take me either, so I have several hours at my disposal and no one with whom to spend them…”

While Combeferre’s color went from red to scarlet to positively magenta at the implication, Bahorel’s face was also growing darker as he growled, “After all, you can’t eat a flower, a flower doesn’t keep you warm—”

Jehan cocked his head slightly, his expression deadly. “And a flower never knocked a man off a horse either, did it?”

Bahorel just stared at him, wondering how it was possible for a man to miss the point so completely. His hands compulsively curled into fists, though he had no desire to hit Jehan (though he definitely had a desire to hit  _something_ ). Instead, he threw his hands up in the air in frustration as he snapped, “You’re just a silly little lord, aren’t you?”

Jehan recoiled as if Bahorel had hit him. His eyes darkened and he took a step back from Bahorel, his shoulders tensing as he raised his chin imperiously, and his voice was quiet but steely as he replied, “Better a silly lord with a flower than a silly knight with a horse and a stick.”

Without another word he turned and walked away, head still held high. Courfeyrac exchanged one final glance with Combeferre and shrugged apologetically before following Jehan. Joly, who had somehow missed most of the conversation except for Jehan’s parting words, called after him, “It’s called a lance!”

Bahorel watched Jehan walk away and finally did punch something, slamming his fist into the wooden rail, splintering it from sheer force, and then turned and stomped in the opposite direction.

* * *

 

“I have word.”

Bossuet’s normally cheerful voice sounded unusually grave, and Bahorel turned to frown at him. They had just arrived in Brackley, where Bahorel had been informed that Lord Prouvaire was  _not_  in attendance, souring his already foul mood. “What?” he snapped at Bossuet.

“Montparnasse’s been called back to the army. The Golden Prince commanded it.” Bossuet hesitated before adding, “He could be gone for the rest of the tourney season.”

Bahorel stared at him for a long moment before flinging his helmet to the ground and stomping away like a child. Feuilly nudged Combeferre, his expression grave as he watched Bahorel walk away. “First Jehan, now Montparnasse…This doesn’t bode well for Bahorel.”

Combeferre just shrugged, though he too looked concerned. “He’ll handle it,” he told Feuilly, who didn’t look convinced. “He’ll be fine.”

It would perhaps have been better if Bahorel hadn’t been fine — it perhaps would have been better if Bahorel’s jousting had been affected, if he had lost a tournament; at the very least, it would have indicated sooner rather than later that he could not continue on the way he was going. Instead, Bahorel channeled his anger into his jousts and won tournament after tournament.

Off the field, it was a bit of a different story. Bahorel avoided banquets even more so than before, insisting they pack early and leave to get more training in before the next tournament. He was training more than he needed to, waking early and not sleeping until the night was half-gone. Joly muttered in undertones that if Bahorel kept going the way he was, he was liable to become ill or worse.

But Joly did not dare say such a thing to Bahorel himself, whose temper had only grown the longer both Montparnasse and Jehan remained away from tournament. He was known to snap at the mildest thing, and had yelled at every single one of his friends multiple times (except for Éponine, whom he had yelled at only once, and after a well-delivered kick to his groin, whom he had not made the mistake of yelling at again).

One night, while Bahorel was busy punching a cloth-covered hay bale for “practice” in the stable, Bossuet nudged Joly companionably. They were sitting outside the stable, knowing better than to put themselves directly in Bahorel’s line of sight. “You should say something to him.”

“Me?” Joly asked, raising an eyebrow at him. “Why in the world should I be the one to do it?”

Bossuet shrugged. “You’re one of his oldest friends, and his physician of sorts. If you tell him that he’s going to run himself into the ground, perhaps he’ll listen.”

Joly stared at him. “You really think Bahorel would listen to me?” He snorted and shook his head. “Yeah, I somehow doubt it. Why don’t you talk to him? You’re the one who has a way with words and all that, Monsieur famous orator de Meaux or whatever.”

Bossuet looked over at him quickly, startled. “You remembered where I’m from?”

Joly was almost defensive as he replied, “What? It’s not like it’s difficult to remember.” When Bossuet just raised an eyebrow at him, Joly blushed slightly. “Maybe I figured that I would need to know where to send your body when I murdered you for being an idiot one time too many.”

“Is that so?” Bossuet murmured, looking at Joly as if he hadn’t quite seen him before.

Looking at Bossuet the same way, his eyes wide, Joly licked his lips and nodded. “Yeah,” he said, suddenly breathless, noticing for the first time how close together they were. “Yeah, that’s right.”

Bossuet hummed in agreement and reached out to cup Joly’s cheek. “So you want to kill me?” he asked softly.

“Some days,” Joly said, just as softly, turning even more red as Bossuet ran his thumb over Joly’s lower lip.

“Today?”

Joly smiled slightly. “Yeah, a bit.”

Bossuet chuckled lightly as he leaned in. “Well, we’ll have to see about that,” he murmured before kissing Joly lightly on the lips.

Joly kissed him back, but not before muttering, “There are still a few hours left in the day…”

While Joly and Bossuet sorted out their feelings outside the stable, inside, Bahorel was still doing his best to avoid his. There was one member of their merry band who was finally sick of it though, and he finally snapped. “Would you stop it?” Combeferre growled at Bahorel, who had graduated from punching the bale of hay to punching the wall of the stable.

“Stop what?” Bahorel shot back, massaging his bruised knuckles and glaring at Combeferre as if he was contemplating punching him.

“Everything!” Combeferre snapped, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “You’ve been acting like a petulant child who’s had his favorite toy taken away for the past few weeks and frankly, we’re all sick of it.”

Bahorel’s jaw clenched and he shook his head. “You have no idea—” he started hotly, but Combeferre cut him off.

“I have every idea! We all do! You’ve made it perfectly clear how miserable you are, so you either need to do something about it or stop moping around and punching things or attacking things with your sword. Be a man and actually face your problems! No, better yet — be a  _knight_  and actually face your problems.”

Though deep in Bahorel’s mind he knew that Combeferre was speaking the truth, he nonetheless growled indistinctly and turned away, but Combeferre was not done. “Tell me, are you more upset about what happened with Jehan, or that you didn’t meet Montparnasse?”

Bahorel whirled on him, his hands clenching into fists. “You have no right to ask that,” he snapped.

Combeferre just arched an eyebrow at him. “I have  _every_  right,” he said coolly. “You forget yourself. Or do you actually think you’re a knight now and we your peasant squires?” Bahorel gaped at him, unable to come up with an answer, and Combeferre shook his head, a little sadly. “Sort out your priorities, or it’ll be the stocks or worse for the lot of us.” He leaned in close to Bahorel and added in a muted tone, “You’re not the only person missing someone at the moment.”

Bahorel stared at him, working through a million different emotions at the same time. At the forefront of his mind, though, was the fact that Combeferre rarely if ever yelled or raised his voice, and so Bahorel took the words he said to heart, and after a long moment, nodded, thoroughly cowed. “Perhaps it is time I talk to Bossuet.”

“To…Bossuet?” Combeferre asked with a frown.

Shrugging, Bahorel managed a small smile. “As Jehan is not here, I have to write him a letter, don’t I? And you know I never learned my letters, not well enough to woo Jehan, at least.”

Combeferre nodded, smiling as well. “So you’ve sorted your priorites?”

“Of course,” Bahorel said, grinning at him. “With my faithful squire yelling at me, how could I not?” He clapped Combeferre on the shoulder and called to Feuilly. “Feuilly, get Bossuet for me, will you?”

Feuilly, who had mostly been trying to mind his own business, shrugged and stood. “Fine, fine,” he grumbled. “Wouldn’t want to interrupt you and Combeferre making up, anyway.”

Outside of the stable, Joly and Bossuet were busy making up as well — or perhaps more accurately, making out. Luckily, they heard Feuilly beginning to open the door and Bossuet quickly pushed Joly away at the last second. Feuilly walked out and glanced at them curiously, looking from their disheveled clothing to, in Joly’s case, rumpled hair. “Have you two been at it again?” he demanded, frowning at them.

“Been…at it?” Joly repeated, a little vacantly.

“Fighting!” Feuilly said, his frown deepening. “That’s all you two seem to do, isn’t it? Bickering and fighting with each other. Well, you better start getting along. Bahorel’s finally getting over himself, and Lord knows we don’t need you two to make things worse than they were.” He turned to Bossuet and told him, “Bahorel needs you. He says he wants to write a letter.”

Bossuet nodded, glancing sideways at Joly. “We’ll be right in.” He offered a hand to Joly and winked. “Better start getting along, then.”

Joly pursed his lips to hide his grin. “We best work on it again later tonight.”

Leaning in so that his lips just brushed Joly’s ear, Bossuet whispered, “And again tomorrow night, and the night after…”

Joly was blushing as he followed Bossuet into the stable, but luckily, no one noticed. Instead, Bahorel said quickly, “Bossuet, I need to write a letter to Jehan.”

“Very well,”  Bossuet said, gathering his materials together. “How do you wish to start it?”

Bahorel frowned, looking contemplative. “Dear Jehan — No. My dearest Jehan…”

For a few hours all of them worked together on the letter to Jehan, working through every metaphor and image until finally Bahorel finished with relish, “With all the love that I possess, Bahorel.”

Pausing, Bossuet glanced up at Bahorel. “You mean William,” he said, his voice quiet.

Bahorel frowned. “Of course,” he said quickly, though his felt his face burn. He hadn’t meant William — though perhaps he had. He let himself wonder what it would be like to tell Jehan who he really was, to tell him that it was not William des Roches who had fallen in love with him, but Bahorel Toiture, son of a thatcher…But such thoughts were not helpful. It could never be, after all, so thinking about it was, well…foolish.

* * *

 

The young squire cleared his throat a little nervously, and Montparnasse straightened, sharp as a blade. “My lord,” the squire squeaked, the papers shaking in his hands. “The tournament results, my lord.”

Montparnasse spread the papers in front of him, flicking through them quickly. “Roches,” he muttered, scanning through them. “Roches, Roches, Roches, Roches…”

His hand tightened on the knife sheathed at his side, and without warning, he spun to slit the squire’s throat, watching dispassionately as the young man fell to the ground. At Montparnasse’s right side, Claquesous cleared his throat. “That was perhaps not wise, my lord.”

Shrugging, Montparnasse wiped his blade on the boy’s tunic. “He won’t be missed.” He glanced up at Claquesous. “You’ll dispose of the body.” It was not a suggestion, but rather a command, and Claquesous bent to lift the boy by his arms. Montparnasse looked closely at the edge of his blade. “I wonder what it would be like to slip a knife between the ribs of Sir William des Roches.”

Claquesous shrugged as well. “There are easier and perhaps more acceptable ways to kill a knight.”

“Indeed,” Montparnasse muttered, turning to stab the blade through the tournament results. “On the back of a horse, with a lance…”


	8. Chapter 8

“ _My dearest Jehan,_

_It is strange to think I haven’t seen you since a month. I have seen the new moon, but not you. I have seen sunsets and sunrises, but nothing of your beautiful face._

_The pieces of my broken heart are so sma that they could be passed through the eyes of a needle._ ”

Jehan paused from reading the letter out loud to Courfeyrac and to one of William’s squires, Feuilly. “He writes as if I had died,” Jehan said softly, enthralled and gratified by the words he had never expected from Sir William. He honestly hadn’t thought William had it in him.

"He dies as well, my lord, every day without you at his side," Feuilly told him.

Jehan half-expected Courfeyrac to laugh at that, but the dark-haired man was uncharacteristically quiet, listening raptly to the letter, which Jehan continued:

" _I miss you like the sun misses the flower, like the sun misses the flower in the depths of winter. Instead of beauty to direct its light to, the heart hardens like the frozen world your absence has abandoned me to._

_I next compete in the city of London. I will find it empty and in the winter if you are not there._

_Hope guides me, it is what gets me through the day and especially the night: the hope that after you’re gone from my sight, it will not be the last time I look upon you._

_With all the love that I possess, I remain yours, the knight of your heart_.”

Jehan’s voice broke a little at the end, and he thought he heard Courfeyrac sniffle, though he gave him the benefit of pretending he hadn’t heard. “Sir William,” Jehan said slowly, pressing the piece of parchment against his chest. “I would not have expected such words from him.

"Perhaps your absence has been enough to inspire poetry from even the most surprising of sources," Courfeyrac suggested.

Nodding thoughtfully, Jehan murmured in agreement, “Perhaps so.” He surveyed Feuilly, who turned red under his scrutiny, and tapped his chin with his fingers. “What say you, Courf? Shall we put my lord William out of his misery, even if the cost is such poetry?”

Courfeyrac snorted. “Put Sir William out of his misery, or you out of yours? You have taken no lover to bed these past few weeks, and you mentioned the other day that you hoped the plague would make a resurgence just for the excitement.”

Jehan turned and scowled at him. “What about you?” he shot back. “I’ve not seen your bed warmed by another, and I found a poem you tried to write. I hate to be the one to inform you, but absence has not turned you into a poet.”

As Courfeyrac stuck his tongue out at Jehan, Feuilly cleared his throat. “My master hoped you might have something to send him in return.”

Jehan looked thoughtful for a moment, then grinned, his smile wicked. “Now that I believe we can arrange…”

* * *

 

“No Montparnasse,” Bossuet reported to Bahorel, having just checked the shields at London, which could only mean that the foul Count was still with the army.

Bahorel felt a small pang in his chest, but it was an old anger now, something he’d tried to quash in favor of hope that Jehan might choose to return to tournament. “No Montparnasse,” he repeated bracingly to himself. He could do it. If Jehan was able to be there, there would nothing that could stop Bahorel, not even his own stubborn insistence on beating Montparnasse.

As if on cue, a voice yelled in their direction and Bahorel and Bossuet both lucked up to find Feuilly riding toward them on the horse. “Feuilly!” Bahorel shouted, grinning. “Did you see Jehan? Did you give him the letter?”

“Yes and yes,” Feuilly confirmed, sliding off the horse, his grin matching Bahorel’s.

Bahorel waited for Feuilly to continue, and when he didn’t, grabbed him by the shoulders and practically shook him. “Well what did he say?” he demanded, far beyond caring whether he sounded desperate or not; his friends had seen him at his lowest point, after all, so this was nothing in comparison.

Feuilly’s grinned widened. “He’s coming to London!”

Letting out a loud whoop that made Feuilly cringe from proximity, Bahorel asked quickly, “Well, did he give you anything for me in return? A letter, or a token? Anything like that?” To his surprise, Feuilly turned bright red, and nodded slightly. “He did. Well, what is it Feuilly?” When still Feuilly hesitated, Bahorel’s voice softened, turning wheedling. “Come on, give it to me, please.”

To his surprise, Feuilly, still scarlet, leaned in and kissed Bahorel quickly on the lips. For a moment, Bahorel stared at him, then whooped again, even louder than before. “Hell yes!” he shouted. “He kissed – that means –-  _hell_ yes!”

As Bahorel continued letting out war whoops that were drawing concerned looks from other knights and peasants alike, Combeferre sidled up next to Feuilly. “Have a good journey?” he asked pleasantly, though there was a strain to his voice.

Feuilly took one look at him and started backing away, his eyes wide. “Oh no,” he said, holding his hands up defensively. “No, kissing Bahorel was as far as I go. I am  _not_  giving you what your little loverboy wanted to send you. Uh-uh.”

“At least tell me what it was he wanted to send!” Combeferre pleaded, giving Feuilly his most desperate, puppy-like eyes.

Feuilly shook his head but then relented, as unable to resist Combeferre’s pleading as anyone. “It’s…I just…I didn’t even know it was  _possible_ ,” he muttered, his face burning an even brighter crimson as he glanced sideways as Combeferre. “He told me…he said…”

Combeferre waited impatiently as Feuilly hemmed and hawed before finally snapping, “Out with it, man, what did he say?”

Letting out a particularly unmanly squeak, Feuilly looked intently at the ground as he muttered, “He said something about his tongue licking your…your… _trou du cul_.” Combeferre went as red as Feuilly and let out a squeaking noise like a mouse caught in a trap, and Feuilly said, panicking, “So you see why I wasn’t about to give that to you!”

Joly nudged Bossuet. “Aren’t you glad we’re the normal ones?” he muttered with a grin as they watched their friends behave like general idiots.

Éponine just snorted, eyeing them both as she said calmly, “If you’re both considered normal, then I’m the Queen of France.”

Bossuet chuckled and chanced a quick peck on Joly’s cheek, figuring their friends were mostly too busy to notice (besides Éponine, who didn’t seem to care what any of them did, and threatened everyone with her hammer if they tried to do anything to her). “You, know, this has me thinking,” he said quietly. “Maybe this would be the perfect tournament to place a little bet on Bahorel…”

Frowning up at him, Joly asked skeptically, “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Bossuet just waved a dismissive hand. “Bahorel’s won four tournaments in a row, Montparnasse once again isn’t here, and with Lord Prouvaire finally back watching him, how can he possibly lose?”

Éponine shrugged. “I’ll get in on that bet,” she said mildly. “We win enough, and there’s the chance I could get my own forge, like I’ve always wanted.”

“And I could write full-time,” Bossuet said, a little dreamily, before calling out, “Oy, Feuilly, Combeferre, you want to get in on a bet?”

“Absolutely,” Combeferre and Feuilly said at the same exact time, both studiously avoiding looking at each other, both still extremely red. Combeferre, always the voice of reason, at least managed to ask, “What are we betting on, exactly?”

Bossuet grinned, knowing with Combeferre and Feuilly on his side, it’d be a matter of time before Joly came over as well. “Betting on Bahorel to win, of course. To beat every one of these English bastards.”

Joly paled. “Every one?” he asked, almost nervous. “Need I remind you what your luck is like?”

“Sure,” Bossuet said easily. “Combeferre, Feuilly, give us what coins you have if you’re in.” Feuilly handed his over easily, and Combeferre quickly followed suit, not wanting to be outdone. Éponine handed hers over as well and Bossuet jingled them in his hand. “C’mon, Joly, give us your coins. We’ll have 50 florins then, a nice rounded bet.”

Shaking his head, Joly told him lowly, “That’s all we’ve got! If we lose—”

“We won’t lose! Bahorel’s on top of his game!” As one, they all turned to look at Bahorel, who was still prancing around and yelling at the top of his lungs, and Bossuet allowed, “Well, in the lists he’s on top of his game. This can’t go wrong, Joly, I promise.”

After hesitating for just a moment more, Joly handed over his coins, and Bossuet closed his fist around them. “Excellent!” he said cheerfully. “I’ll go find myself a patsy of an Englishman to make this bet.”

Joly just shook his head. “I have a very bad feeling about this…” he muttered before turning to yell at Bahorel, “Would you stop dancing around? We’ve got a tournament to win!”

* * *

 

Jehan had sent word that Bahorel should meet him in a cathedral in central London, obviously a nod to their first meeting, but in truth Bahorel would have met Jehan wherever he asked. He took the time that morning to wash his face and comb his hair, even if he knew it was just going to get mussed under his helmet later. He wanted to look as best as he could for Jehan.

Jehan, it seemed, had the same idea, as he was resplendent in a flowing silver surcoat. He looked just as beautiful as when Bahorel first saw him, and in typical fashion, before he could even offer a greeting, Bahorel blurted, “Beautiful.”

Turning to face him, Jehan raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. “Oh, yes, the cathedral is beautiful, isn’t it?” he said lightly, though he clearly knew what Bahorel had meant. “The stained glass, all riot and color in a dreary, grey world. Don’t you think?”

“I think you are riot and color in my dreary world,” Bahorel said boldly, taking a step closer to him.

Now Jehan smiled genuinely, and ducked his head before murmuring, “I feel the same way about the letter that you sent me. It was truly a light in the dark to me.” He looked up at Bahorel. “Speak those words to me, Sir William. Speak that beauty again.”

Bahorel stared at him, trying to formulate words, but the only thing he could say was what he honestly felt: “I will win this tournament for you.”

Jehan blinked. “Excuse me?” he asked, his voice suddenly cold.

“This tournament. I’ll win it in your name.” Jehan still stared at him, unsmiling, and Bahorel barreled onward, almost nervous. “Every knight that I defeat will be for you. Your beauty will be reflected in the power of my arm, the shattering of my lance, the flanks of my horse.”

Jehan stepped back, a muscle working in his jaw. “Wow, really?” he asked, something out of place in his voice, and Bahorel was taken aback when he realized what it was: anger. “In the flanks of your horse,  _really_?”

Bahorel could only nod, his mouth suddenly going dry. Perhaps the flanks of his horse was not the best imagery he could have chosen, but he didn’t see… Jehan sighed and shook his head, almost disappointed. “I wanted to hear poetry, William.”

“Oh. Well. I’m not ready,” Bahorel said awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck and desperately wishing that he could be somewhere else.

Jehan crossed his arms in front of his chest. “But  _I_  am. Why must everything be run on war’s schedule, as if the only thing a man can accomplish is to ride a horse into war and all else must bow to his will?”

Bahorel shook his head, a little baffled as to the direction the conversation had turned. “Well, a knight’s day is fuller than yours, and a knight has more demands on his time…”

“Is that so?” Jehan asked coolly.

Shaking his head again, Bahorel started, “Yes. Maybe. No?” When Jehan just looked at him, unimpressed, Bahorel said quickly, “Jehan, how may I prove me love to you?”

For a moment, Jehan just looked at him, and Bahorel almost gave up all hope. But then Jehan asked quietly, “Do you ask in earnest?” Bahorel nodded quickly and Jehan half-smiled, something almost fierce in his expression. “If you would prove your love to me, you should do your worst.”

“My worst,” Bahorel repeated, staring at Jehan and trying to figure out what in the hell that was supposed to mean. “What do you mean?”

Now Jehan’s lips curved into an icy smile and he lifted his chin as he said, “Instead of winning this tournament ‘for me’, instead of trying to ‘honor’ me with your high reputation, I want you to act against your normal character and do badly.”

“Do…badly,” Bahorel repeated, not comprehending.

Jehan’s smile turned vicious. “In a word, lose.”

Bahorel stared at him. Of all the requests that Jehan could have made, of all the ways he could have demanded Bahorel prove his love, this was the one thing that Bahorel wasn’t sure he could do. It was in his blood to win, in his bones. His honor was the only thing that Bahorel had left, and to give that up… “Losing proves nothing,” he said, trying to keep his voice level, trying not to yell at Jehan, not when he had only just gotten him back. “Losing proves only that I am a loser!”

“Wrong,” Jehan said simply. “Losing is the keenest possible test of your love by contradicting your self-love and placing your lover above all. Losing is what I demand to prove your love, no more and no less.”

Bahorel clenched his jaw, his hands closing into fists at his side as he glared at Jehan, who returned his glare evenly. “I will not lose,” he growled.

Something seemed to shutter in Jehan’s eyes, and he took another step back from Bahorel. “Then you do not love me,” he said quietly, and favored Bahorel with a long look before sweeping past him and out of the cathedral.

* * *

 

Bossuet’s voice rose and fell as he spoke over the crowd, crescendo-ing at the end of Bahorel’s introduction. “—the protector of Italian orphans, the lance that thrilled France, he gave them Hell at La Rochelle, the one, the only, Sir William des Roches!”

The crowd erupted into cheers and Bossuet grinned victoriously, giving his most courtly bow. “God I’m good!” he said, mostly to himself, his voice hoarse from yelling.

Up in the stands, Jehan primly adjusted his surcoat, glaring at where Sir William’s horse pranced in place. “Ugh, his horse’s  _flanks_ ,” he repeated for the tenth time to Courfeyrac, who just snorted with laughter.

Once he had controlled it, Courfeyrac suggested innocently, “Maybe where he comes from, it means love?”

“He’s from Anjou,” Jehan muttered grimly. “It’s not as if he’s from the far side of the world. To the best of my knowledge, love is the same there as it is here, and it doesn’t involve horses or their flanks.”

Courfeyrac just shrugged. “To be fair, Anjou is a bit…provincial, no? Who’s to say what relations they get up to with their horses that far from Paris…”

As Jehan laughed and smacked Courfeyrac in the arm, out in the lists Joly was adjusting Bahorel’s stirrups. “Are you ready?” he asked, more nervous than usual, the thought of 50 coins weighing heavily on his mind.

Bahorel nodded, once, and kneed his horse forward as the flag dropped. Once he got to the beginning of the rail, though, he pulled his horse to a stop and looked straight up at Jehan, who looked directly back at him. They stayed like that until the other knight smashed his lance directly into Bahorel’s breastplate.

“What are you doing?” Joly practically shrieked as they ran out to him.

“Are you blind?” Bossuet demanded.

“Didn’t you see the flag?” Feuilly asked.

Bahorel took a deep breath and shrugged. “I’m losing,” he said.

They exchanged glances, and Combeferre said, a little hopefully, “Are you dropping behind for a more dramatic victory?”

Shaking his head, Bahorel explained, feeling exceptionally stupid as he did, “Jehan told me that I should lose to prove my love to him.”

Joly let out a whimper and Bossuet groaned loudly. “Oh, God, I’d rather you were blind.”

“But don’t be foolish,” Feuilly said, a little blankly. “He just wants proof, that’s all. That he hasn’t uncrossed his legs for nothing.”

Éponine punched Feuilly in the arm so hard that he whimpered in an even higher pitch than Joly. Bahorel just shook his head again. “I haven’t uncrossed his legs,” he muttered, feeling his cheeks flush and glad that his helmet was on.

“Then why in the hell are you doing this?” Joly demanded.

“Because—” Bahorel started, wincing when the other knight struck him again, high on his breastplate (he hadn’t even realized that the flag had been dropped), and it took him a moment before he could manage in a defeated sort of voice, “because I love him.”

Jehan, meanwhile, had stood, almost without realizing it, leaning over the rail of the stands and staring at Bahorel, a giant grin spreading across his face. “He loves me,” he said happily. “He really loves me.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **This chapter contains explicit sexual content**.
> 
> Because like literally everyone has sex in this chapter.

Over and over again, it seemed, Bahorel was hit, hammered by lances as he merely sat in the saddle at the end of the lists, waiting for the tournament official to announce that the latest knight to face him had won. He had thought his honor as a knight was the most important thing to him, had thought that the chance to change his stars was what mattered most, but here, faced with the possibility of losing one tournament versus losing the man he loved forever, the choice was an easy one — even if it was not an easy one for his friends to understand.

“I’m going to lose everything!” Joly shouted at Bossuet, who managed to look slightly amused at the situation. “I told you that your bad luck was going to be the ruin of this, of everything!”

Bossuet just shrugged, unconcerned. “That’s why it’s called gambling,” he told Joly cheerfully, grinning when Feuilly had to hold Joly back from attacking him.

Éponine leaned against the rail and shrugged as well, remarking to Combeferre, “It  _is_  very romantic, though.”

He raised an eyebrow at her as Bahorel was hit yet again. “Are you a woman or a blacksmith?”

She grinned. “Sometimes, I’m both.” She looked past him to where Feuilly was still struggling with Joly, and sighed heavily. “Put him down.”

Finally. Bahorel was granted a reprieve, a few hours off between jousts, and they took the opportunity to try to work some of the kinks and knots from Bahorel’s bruised and abused muscles.

As Joly worked on Bahorel’s shoulder, which had been dislocated, Bossuet told him bracingly, “There’s still time for you to come back from this. No knight has yet distanced himself with victories. If you win all your remaining matches—”

“And some of your opponents lose,” Joly added, pressing against Bahorel’s shoulder.

“—you could make the semis, even the finals,” Bossuet finished, wincing in sympathy as Bahorel’s shoulder popped back into place.

Éponine looked at Bahorel dispassionately, ignoring his comical whimpering, and said calmly, “Well, at least the armor’s proven itself.”

Joly snorted. “And your love?” he asked sharply, digging his fingers into a particularly nasty-looking bruise harder than was probably necessary. “Have you proven that yet?”

Bahorel winced and glared up at him but remained silent. Combeferre sighed heavily. “Then withdraw,” he suggested. “Lose that way, if you must. But don’t take any more punishment.”

“Combeferre—” Bahorel started, stopping when Courfeyrac walked up behind him.

Courfeyrac spared a brief smile at Combeferre before telling Bahorel, “My lord sends this message: he says that if you love him—”

“Look, I know,” Bahorel snapped, waspish. “I must lose. Isn’t he watching? Hasn’t he seen me take hit after hit, all in his name?”

Courfeyrac’s chin lifted slightly and he stared coldly at Bahorel. “My lord commands that if you love him, you will not lose another match. He says that if you him, you will win this tournament.”

Bahorel stared at Courfeyrac in shock before slumping and groaning loudly while Bossuet patted his arm, looking torn between sympathy and amusement. Courfeyrac smiled slightly and took his leave, pausing only to whisper in Combeferre’s ear, “I will see you tonight.”

* * *

 

Back on the lists, Bahorel was back in his armor, ready to finally compete and win. Bossuet clapped him on the shoulder and pointed into the stands. “There he is, the embodiment of your love, your Eros.”

Bahorel glared in Jehan’s direction, still smarting — literally and figuratively — from the blows he had taken. “And how I hate him.”

He spurred his horse forward and thundered down the lists to strike his opponent, knocking him clean off his horse. Joly clapped and cheered, though he told Bossuet in an undertone, “I don’t understand men sometimes.”

Bossuet shrugged. “Nor do I. But they understand us.”

* * *

 

Bossuet’s grin was wide and wicked as he accepted the coins from the English men he had made the bet with, and he tucked the bag of coins into his pocket and told them, “Thank you very much, gentleman, and look us up if ever you’re in Paris.”

He was in such a good mood that he actually whistled on his way back to the tent he was sharing with Joly, Feuilly, Combeferre and Éponine, across from Bahorel’s. Just before reaching his tent, he paused, noticing a bizarrely-dressed figure furtively slipping into Bahorel’s tent, and smiled slightly. “Bed him well, my lord,” he murmured. “Bed him well.”

“How about you worry about bedding me well?”

Bossuet turned to grin at Joly, who was smirking at him from the tent’s entrance. “Why, sir,” Bossuet said, giving Joly a mocking bow, “am I making the mistake of believing that you are propositioning me? I am not so easy as that.”

Joly’s smirk widened, and he ran his hands down Bossuet’s chest. “Aren’t you?” he asked lightly.

“Perhaps I am, when it comes to it,” Bossuet murmured, and kissed Joly. “Shall we move this elsewhere? Or did you want to bed me here, in full view of our lord’s tent?”

Joly snorted and nipped Bossuet’s earlobe. “Our lord?” he repeated. “Tell me, do you mean our Lord God in Heaven, or Bahorel? Because I’ve shared accommodations with Bahorel for long enough that I doubt anything he could see here would shock him. Besides, he has his hands full with Lord Prouvaire, does he not?”

Bossuet laughed lowly and told him, “That he does. And trust me, I would let you do what you wanted to me in the presence of as many witnesses as you saw fit. That being said, for the sake of Bahorel…”

Though Joly sighed and rolled his eyes, he nonetheless laced his fingers with Bossuet’s and tugged him towards the tent. “Luckily for everyone who would otherwise bear witness, Combeferre has stepped out with his own paramour, and Feuilly and Éponine have not yet made it back from the pub, meaning you and I have a bit of time to ourselves…”

* * *

 

“We missed you at the banquet, Sir William.”

Bahorel tried to sit up at the sound of Jehan’s voice but couldn’t quite make it. “We?” he asked instead.

Jehan came forward, dressed most scandalously in a brightly-colored dressing gown. “I, Jehan, your prize.”

“My prize?” Bahorel snorted, shaking his head. “I hardly feel worthy of a prize.”

“You won the tournament, did you not?” Jehan asked, raising his eyebrow as he crossed to Bahorel’s bed.

Bahorel nodded, still frowning. “The tournament I won. Your heart…”

Jehan smiled and bent to kiss him lightly on the lips. “Why do you think I am here, Sir William, if not to deliver that prize in person?” He paused and then asked carefully, “My valet tells me that sometimes your squire — that they call you Bahorel. Is this so, Sir William?”

Looking up at him, feeling Jehan’s hand gently stroke his cheek, Bahorel felt that he could not lie, not in that moment. “Yes, it is so.”

Jehan half-smiled and kissed Bahorel again, telling him, “Your name makes no matter to me, so long as I can call you my own.”

“Oh, but I  _am_  your own,” Bahorel murmured, reaching out to circle Jehan’s waist with his arms. To his surprise, Jehan crawled onto the bed, straddling him in a way that would have been positively indecent, given Bahorel’s lack of clothing under the coverlet and Jehan’s lack of clothing under his robe, were it not for the fact that he landed on Bahorel’s bruised ribs. “Ah,  _ah,_ damnit man!”

Jehan frowned and tugged down the blanket, revealing the bruises that littered Bahorel’s skin. “You need a surgeon!”

Bahorel gritted his teeth. “He’s been. He says I’ll live, even if it doesn’t feel that way at the moment.”

Running his fingers lightly down Bahorel’s chest, Jehan said softly, “Bahorel, this pain is my doing.”

“Yes it is,” Bahorel said bluntly, though his expression softened when he saw the concern on Jehan’s face. “Though I was always taught that one must take the bad with the good.”

Jehan hummed thoughtfully and sat up. “Well, this good you speak of,” he murmured, managing a small smile as he slipped out of his robe, revealing his nakedness and his already hard cock beneath it, “it will be my doing as well.”

He pulled the blanket all the way off of Bahorel and straddled him again, more careful this time to not press against his bruises. Leaning forward, he kissed him lightly, running his fingers down Bahorel’s chest as Bahorel reached up to cup Jehan’s ass, kneading the flesh with both hands. “Jehan,” he gasped as Jehan bit down on his neck. He slipped a finger between Jehan’s arse-cheeks, sucking in a breath as he found his entrance already slick with oil. “You prepared for this?”

“I wanted to be able to let you take your prize easily,” Jehan murmured with a wicked grin, kissing his way up Bahorel’s jaw. “Are you prepared as well?”

Bahorel made a whining noise as Jehan teased his earlobe with his tongue. “Prepared?” he asked hoarsely. “I have been hoping since first we met, but I do not think I could ever have prepared myself for this moment.”

Jehan laughed and kissed his lips. “A very good answer, Bahorel.” He reached behind him to grasp Bahorel’s cock, smirking against Bahorel’s lips as he felt how hard it was. “Clearly you are prepared, though. Now — take your prize.”

Grasping Jehan’s hips, Bahorel threw his head back as Jehan lined himself up with Bahorel’s cock and pressed back, sinking down until Bahorel was fully inside of him. “Jehan,” he barely managed, his fingers pressing so hard against Jehan’s hips that he was sure to leave bruises to match his own.

Jehan kissed him again, rolling his hips slowly, almost languidly, moving torturously slow, especially since Bahorel’s injuries prevented him from thrusting up to meet him the way he wanted. “If it is my injuries that you fear aggravating, please do not,” Bahorel gasped. “Speed will not adversely affect them, this I promise.”

Jehan threw his head back as he laughed. “Oh, you believe I am going slowly for your sake?” he teased, his eyes glinting as he grinned down at Bahorel. “My lord, after torturing you today, would you begrudge me some sweeter torture this eve?”

“Yes,” Bahorel said bluntly, biting back a groan. “Yes, I would begrudge you that. For God’s sake, man,  _move_.”

“Your wish is my command,” Jehan murmured, moving quicker now. His back was arched, his face flushed, and for a moment, Bahorel thought this must certainly be what heaven looked like. Then he wrapped one hand around Jehan’s leaking cock, and Jehan cried out, his hands digging into Bahorel’s shoulders, both of them too gone to care about Bahorel’s injuries now.

They moved as one, Bahorel thrusting up as best he could, Jehan sinking down to meet each thrust, Bahorel’s hand moving in time with them. Bahorel could feel the warmth and pressure coiling in his stomach and moaned, “Jehan, I…”

Jehan bent down and bit the juncture between Bahorel’s neck and shoulder and Bahorel groaned even loudly, his thumb swiping unevenly across the slit of Jehan’s cock. That was all it took for Jehan to come, his back arching as his seed spilled across Bahorel’s fingers. His tightening around Bahorel drove him to the edge, and he spent with one final shout.

It took several moments for both of them to come back to Earth, and Jehan rolled over to lie next to Bahorel, laying his head gingerly on Bahorel’s chest. “Did you enjoy your prize?” Jehan asked, panting slightly.

“Mmm give me twenty minutes and I will enjoy it again,” Bahorel murmured, turning to kiss Jehan.

Jehan just laughed. “What will your men say when you are more injured on the morrow than you started this eve?”

Bahorel grinned. “My men will say nothing if they value their lives. What of you, what will your valet say when you do not return to your bedchamber tonight?”

Shrugging, Jehan traced his fingers idly down Bahorel’s chest. “Courfeyrac will undoubtedly be busy enough tonight that he does not even notice my absence…”

* * *

 

On any other day, Combeferre might have been excited to be invited into a castle, to wander the halls and admire the tapestries, to learn the history of the stones and the stories such a place could tell. But tonight, with Courfeyrac’s fingers twined loosely with his, leading him down the corridor, Combeferre’s mind was decidedly elsewhere.

When they got to Courfeyrac’s bedchamber, Courfeyrac turned to Combeferre with a wicked smile and pulled him close to kiss him. The next few moments were a flurry of activity as they both kissed each other while trying to take off their clothing as quickly as possible. Once they were both fully naked, Courfeyrac pushed Combeferre back into the bed and climbed on after him.

He kissed down Combeferre’s jaw and kissed his lips lightly before saying, “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this. Since first my lord instructed me to tell yours his name…”

“Me as well,” Combeferre managed. “And to finally have it, to finally have  _you_ …”

Courfeyrac grinned. “What do you want me to do first?” he practically purred, trailing his fingers teasingly down Combeferre’s chest, circling his nipple lightly with his forefinger.

Combeferre gasped and arched into his touch. “I…I’m not sure I can articulate what I want, my lord,” he muttered, his face bright red.

Courfeyrac pursed his lips contemplatively. “Well, first, I am going to suck your cock until you’re no longer able to articulate anything,” he said cheerfully. “How does that sound to you?”

Combeferre let out a squeak as Courfeyrac straddled his thighs, his hands running down his chest to rest firmly on Combeferre’s hips. “Yes, my lord,” Combeferre gasped.

“Combeferre?”

“Ye—yes?” Combeferre stammered.

Courfeyrac smirked up at him. “The proper time to refer to a noble as ‘my lord’ is not when said noble is about to put your cock in his mouth. Understood?”

Combeferre made a whining noise as Courfeyrac did just that. “Yes, my — yes, Courfeyrac.” His hands fluttered uselessly around Courfeyrac’s head before latching into his dark curls. Courfeyrac’s mouth was warm and wet and slid effortlessly down Combeferre’s cock. He’d had his share of back alley tumbles, just as every squire did, but never like this, never with as handsome and roguish a man as Courfeyrac, never with a man who could count himself as a noble.

Courfeyrac’s lips moved further down Combeferre’s cock, his tongue dragging against the vein on the underside of his cock in a way that made Combeferre’s hips jerk forward. Courfeyrac pulled back, tantalizingly slow, only to swirl his tongue around the head of Combeferre’s cock. “Christ above,” Combeferre gasped, his fingers tightening in Combeferre’s curls.

Courfeyrac pulled back all the way now, Combeferre’s cock sliding out of his mouth with a frankly embarrassingly wet ‘pop’, to tell Combeferre delightedly, “That’s blasphemous.”

“Do you want me to apologize?” Combeferre asked, as amused as he could be considering his leaking cock was currently suffering neglect, especially with Courfeyrac’s mouth so close.

“Oh no,” Courfeyrac said, his eyes dark, his grip on Combeferre’s hips tightening. “I want to hear your blasphemy again.”

He swallowed Combeferre down again, humming with laughter against his cock when Combeferre indeed let loose a string of blasphemies that would make even an irreligious man blush (and he let out his own blasphemies later, when Combeferre enthusiastically returned the favor).

* * *

 

Joly collapsed next to Bossuet, both of their chests heaving, and tugged the blanket over both of them with what little strength hadn’t been turned into jelly. “That was…” he started, unable to complete the sentence.

Bossuet rolled onto his side and grinned lazily at him. “Adequate,” he supplied, grin widening when Joly glared at him, affronted.

“Adequate?” Joly repeated. “Tell me it was adequate tomorrow when you’re barely able to walk, sir.”

Laughing, Bossuet leaned in to kiss Joly, about to retort when Feuilly and Éponine came into the tent, both laughing, though their laughter quickly

Feuilly stared at them, eyes wide. “Are you — did you — are you two…?”

“I swear, men are the least observant creatures on this planet,” Éponine said in bored voice. “Yes, they are together. Have been for awhile now. From the look of it, Bossuet’s bad luck hasn’t yet found its way into the bedchamber.”

Looking disgruntled, Feuilly asked with a slight pout, “Do Bahorel and Combeferre know as well?”

Bossuet and Joly exchanged glances, and Bossuet shrugged. “Considering Bahorel is currently entertaining Lord Prouvaire in his bed, and I saw Courfeyrac leading Combeferre in the direction of the castle, I doubt either of them much care, whether or not they know.”

Now Feuilly looked more offended than anything, and squawked in indignation, “Am I the only one that didn’t have sex tonight?”

He glanced from Joly to Bossuet to Éponine, as if she might remedy the situation, but she didn’t even look up at him as she said calmly, “You even think about it and I will crush your balls with my forge hammer.”

Joly couldn’t help it — he let out a snort at the look on Feuilly’s face, and had to bury his face against Bossuet’s shoulder to stop from laughing out loud. Bossuet bit back his own grin and told them, “Regardless of Feuilly’s lack of success in the bed tonight, Joly and I do need to dress ourselves. If you would be so kind…”

“Oh no,” Feuilly said stubbornly, sitting down and crossing his arms in front of his chest. “I’m not going anywhere. You two got yourselves into it. You can get yourselves out.”

Joly sat up and exchanged a glance with each other and then shrugged and stood, strolling through the tent to nonchalantly claim his trousers. Feuilly let out a high-pitched noise and covered his eyes. “I didn’t need to see that!” he protested.

Éponine rolled her eyes. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.” She pursed her lips and looked critically at Joly. “Besides, it’s not even all that impressive.” She looked over at Bossuet as he too stood, and nodded calmly. “Now, see,  _that’s_  more impressive.”

Feuilly whimpered and kept his hands firmly over his eyes. “Just let me know when they’re clothed, would you?”

“Oh, lighten up, man,” Bossuet said bracingly, clapping him on the shoulder as he tried to pull his trousers on one-handed. “You’ll find yourself someone to sleep in your bed soon enough.”

Feuilly peeked between his fingers to glare at Bossuet. “The problem I have is that the bed you two chose to ‘sleep’ in was mine, you stupid sods.”

Tired of the boys’ bickering, Éponine cleared her throat. “We leave for France in the morning,” she reminded them loudly. “No matter who is sleeping in whose bed, a good night’s sleep is well-earned, I think. And a good night’s sleep requires  _silence_.”

Taking the hint, Joly, Bossuet and Feuilly settled down for the night with only a bit more grumbling from Feuilly and a quiet, sleepy murmur from Joly as he curled against Bossuet. “Did you hear that? We’re going home tomorrow.”


	10. Chapter 10

The only sound was the slap of the waves against the small boat and the occasional groan from Joly, who had taken one look at the boat they’d be crossing the Channel in and declared that he was going to be sick. Bossuet’s hand rubbed comforting circles on Joly’s back as he asked quietly, “How long since any of you have been back to France? I’ve only been gone a few months.”

Éponine rubbed her eyes tiredly. “It’s been two years for me,” she said, glancing over at Feuilly, who shrugged.

“Three years for me, and for Joly.” Joly groaned in agreement.

Combeferre’s voice was just as quiet as he told them, “Five long years since I’ve set foot in France.”

Bahorel, who was staring out over the slate-grey water with a faraway look on his face, made no indication that he had heard anything that had been said, and only looked up when Bossuet nudged him and asked, “Bahorel?”

“Twelve,” Bahorel answered, his expression guarded, thinking of what the twelve years of his life had been like since his father had sent him off with Sir Geoffroi.

* * *

 

_Bahorel had little memory of his mother, save as a kindly, quiet figure. Twelve years ago, she had been long dead, which was part of the reason Bahorel’s father, Jacques Toiture, had elected to send his son away, knowing that he could not provide the life for his son that he wanted. But Bahorel had not wanted to leave his father, even though at the age of ten he should have been beyond such things._

_Even so, he did not weep when his father told him that he had found a knight who would let Bahorel squire for him, even though the knight was headed to England, with no idea of when he would be back. Bahorel had been raised on tales of knights, and a knight would not cry to be separated from the only family and only home he had ever known._

_Instead, he stared up with wide eyes at Sir Geoffroi de Charny, who was the tallest man Bahorel had ever seen, taller even than his own father, as his father said, “Sir Geoffroi? I’m the thatcher – I spoke to you outside the Paris stadium.”_

_“Oh yes, I remember.” The knight looked down at Bahorel, who lifted his chin defiantly, and the knight managed a smile. “And this is the boy? Well, step forward, sir, let me have a look at you.” After a glance at his father, Bahorel did as commanded, stepping forward for Sir Geoffroi to examine. “He’s a half-starved little scarecrow, isn’t he?”_

_Bahorel scowled. “I’m not,” he said hotly. “I’m the strongest of all my friends and I always win when we fight!”_

_Jacques looked aghast at Bahorel’s words, but Geoffroi just laughed. “I see,” he said, amused. “Show me your arm, then.” Bahorel lifted his arm to show his muscle, and Sir Geoffroi squeezed his bicep and nodded his approval. “Well, if your arm is half as strong as your spirit, that’s all you’ll need in this world.” He bent to look Bahorel in the eyes. “I can show you a great, wide world full of adventure and marvels that you do not yet dream of.” Bahorel smiled slightly, and Geoffroi smiled as well and straightened. “Can you pack my horse, and lead it?”_

_Nodding, Bahorel scoffed, “Of course.” He cocked his head slightly. “My father says that knights fight people. Is that true?”_

_Geoffroi pursed his lips and looked contemplative. “Knights do fight,” he confirmed, though he added, “but they do not fight for the sake of fighting. A knight must always fight for honor, for those who cannot fight for themselves. That is the mark of the true knight. Do you understand the difference?” Bahorel nodded solemnly, and Geoffroi clapped him on the shoulder. “Good lad. Now go on, say goodbye to your father, and we’ll be off.”_

_Jacques knelt down in front of Bahorel and placed both of his hands on Bahorel’s shoulders. “He’s a real knight, Bahorel,” he told him seriously, though his voice cracked just a little as he continued, “He can give you a better life than I could.” He kissed his son on the forehead and added, “Watch him and learn all that you can, and one day, you will change your stars.”_

_Sir Geofrroi cleared his throat, and Jacques stood and pushed Bahorel towards him. “Combeferre, show the boy his duties,” Geoffroi commanded, and a slightly older boy with a serious expression gestured at Bahorel, who paused and looked back at his father._

_“Father, I’m afraid!” Bahorel called. “I don’t know the way back home!”_

_Jacques shook his head. “Don’t be foolish! A knight is never afraid of such things.” When Bahorel still didn’t look convinced, Jacques’ expression softened, and he called to his son, “Just follow your feet, and they’ll lead you home.”_

* * *

 

Well, Bahorel had certainly never expected his feet to lead him back to Paris quite like this, on horseback waving at the throngs of people as he paraded with his fellow knights through the streets of Paris. Even after twelve years, the streets were hauntingly familiar to him, and he was constantly torn between his memories and what he was seeing with his own eyes.

“Smile, Bahorel!” Combeferre called, following behind him with William des Roches’ shield hoisted high above him. “These people are here to see you!”

Bahorel would have scoffed at that were it not for the fact that many in the crowd did cheer louder and even chant “des Roches” as he passed, and he forced a smile on his face, waving at the crowd, which roared even louder once he did.

And whatever thoughts were on his mind quickly fled as he entered the tournament grounds with the other knights, instead grinning fiercely at the familiar sight of the lists, mentally preparing for the tournament to come.

Bossuet jogged up to him, looking grim as he called, “I have news! Montparnasse is here, he’s entered in the tourney.”

Feuilly made a face at that. “He must have gotten bored with whatever war he was fighting in.”

“No, the Golden Prince himself commanded it,” Bossuet told them. “He was forced to disband his army. They were ravaging in the night, pillaging town after town, robbing and murdering and ransacking churches. Rumor has it that Montparnasse himself killed an unknown number with his dagger, and—”

Whatever details Bossuet was about to elaborate on died in his throat as Montparnasse pulled his destrier to a halt next to Bahorel. “Sir William,” he said coolly, raising his visor to look at Bahorel. “At last we’ll have a chance to face each other again, and at the world championships, no less.”

A muscle worked in Bahorel’s jaw, and he said in a low voice, “As I promised you before, you will look up at me from the flat of your back.”

Monstparnasse just chuckled, looking away from Bahorel at the crowd. “Let the past die, would you? After all, you’ve done well for yourself in my absence, on the field and off, or so my sources tell me. Winning trophies, horses, men…”

Bahorel did not dignify that with a response, instead asking coolly, “You put them in that order?”

“Generally, with a few exceptions,” Montparnasse said lightly, nodding towards where Jehan was just settling into his seat in the stands. “Beautiful, isn’t he? I had almost forgotten after being gone for so long. A real thoroughbred trophy, don’t you think?”

It took all of Bahorel’s self-control to not leap off of his horse and beat Montparnasse within an inch of his life. He managed to say in as calm a voice as possible, “You speak of Lord Prouvaire as if he is a target.”

Montparnasse glanced over at him, a small smile hovering on his lips. “Isn’t he?”

“No.” Bahorel’s voice became fond as he looked at Jehan. “He is the arrow.”

Snorting, Montparnasse shook his head. “No matter if he is target or arrow, as he is to be my husband. I’ve entered into negotiations with his father. He’ll be saddled and placed on my mantle, the best trophy of all.”

Bahorel’s mouth went dry as he stared at Montparnasse, his blood pounding a dull rhythm in his ears. He could not even imagine what it would be like if Jehan were to marry Montparnasse. Certainly Bahorel had not been foolish enough to imagine that he and Jehan would end up married, however much he may want it, just because the logistics alone would be impossible.

But to imagine a future where Jehan, brilliant, loving, bright Jehan was bent and cowed by propriety as the subservient husband to a beast like Montparnasse…it was unconscionable.

Without another word, Bahorel pulled his horse’s reins sharply and kneed the horse into a trot, trying to leave the smug look on Montparnasse’s face far behind him.

* * *

 

That night, Jehan again crept into Bahorel’s tent, and after a heady round of love-making, no longer hindered by Bahorel’s injuries, they lay together, Jehan’s head resting against Bahorel’s shoulder as he traced his fingers idly across Bahorel’s chest. “What are you thinking about?” Jehan asked. “You’ve been quiet. Are you worried about the tournament?”

“No,” Bahorel said, his arm around Jehan’s shoulders tightening its grip. “I’m worried about you, actually. You and I.”

Jehan sat up slightly, frowning at Bahorel. “In what way?”

Bahorel sighed and glanced away. “Count Montparnasse told me that he has entered into negotiations with your father for your hand.” He tried to keep the words casual but every one seemed to fall like a stone. “He says you two are to be married.”

Jehan laughed slightly and shook his head. “Many men have entered into negotiations with my father. None yet have left with me as his husband.”

Bahorel did not seem reassured. “But he is a count, from good family and standing. What if your father agrees?”

“My father can agree all he wishes. I’ll not marry someone like Montparnasse.”

Now Bahorel’s voice was quiet as he asked, “And what if you are not given a choice?”

Heat flared in Jehan’s eyes, and he sat up fully, bracing himself against Bahorel’s chest as he looked down as him imperiously. “I am no prize to be won by any man, no trophy to be put on any man’s mantle, and if you think that I would resign myself to that fate, then you don’t know me at all.” He raised his chin, his eyes flashing in defiance as he told Bahorel proudly, “I am Jean of House Prouvaire, cousin to the Golden Prince, descendant of kings.” His expression softened slightly and he ran his palms across Bahorel’s broad chest. “And in this life, in any life, I would choose you over Count Montparnasse every time. On my honor as a man in love.”

Bahorel could not find the words to reply to that, and settled for drawing Jehan against him and kissing him soundly until they fell asleep, wrapped up in each other.

When Jehan slipped out again the next morning, just as the sun was beginning to peek over the horizon, he paused and kissed Bahorel’s forehead. “Beat Monatparnasse,” he said, simply, and Bahorel smiled slightly.

“For you? Absolutely.”

“No,” Jehan said firmly, linking his fingers with Bahorel’s and squeezing his hand. “Beat him for you.”

* * *

 

As if taking Jehan’s words to heart, Bahorel rode flawlessly in his first few matches, unseating two of his opponents and defeating the others easily. From the side of the lists, Montparnasse watched Bahorel ride, his eyes narrowed, and he asked an older knight, a former champion named Thenardier, “How would you beat him?”

Thenardier watched Bahorel thunder down the lists and shrugged. “With a stick, while he slept. But on a horse, with a lance…That man is unbeatable.”

Montparnasse stared at Bahorel, a contemplative expression on his face. “No man is unbeatable,” he said. “You just have to find his weakness. And I _will_ find Sir William’s. And when I do…” He did not finish the sentence, instead clenching his fist and smiling grimly.


	11. Chapter 11

“Sir William.” Bahorel paused in placing the saddle on his horse and turned to look at Jehan, who was grinning almost wickedly at him as he leaned against the wall of the stable. “Why do you saddle your horse? It is the Sabbath, and there is no tournament today.”

Bahorel smiled back at him, though his smile was unusually tight. “I have an errand to run, and am using the break to complete it.”

Jehan pouted slightly. “That is unfortunate news. I had hoped to request that you accompany me to church. Which is to say, to a private devotional. In my bed.”

Courfeyrac, from his position over Jehan’s shoulder, cleared his throat. “My lord, I have been asked to remind you that laying in bed shouting ‘oh, God!’ does not so much constitute prayer as it does blasphemy.”

“Damn,” Jehan said cheerfully. “Would you blaspheme with me, then, Sir William? Or must my blasphemy be a solo commitment?”

Bahorel chuckled and shook his head. “As much as I would love to blaspheme with you on this or any other day, I am afraid that this errand cannot keep. I could, perhaps, join you later?”

Jehan sighed dramatically. “So long as you do not mind that I will get started without you.” He leaned in towards Bahorel and added with a wicked glint in his eyes, “If you have never made love to the sound of the cathedral bells calling Vespers, you are truly missing a most religious of experiences.”

Bahorel blushed fuchsia and Jehan leaned in to kiss his cheek before practically strutting away. Staring after him until he was gone from sight, Bahorel shook his head and turned back to his horse. This time, he was interrupted by Combeferre, who looked disapprovingly at him. “So you mean to go through with it?”

Shrugging, Bahorel adjusted the stirrups. “It is something that I have to do.”

“And what if you get caught? This is not something that you can explain away to the guards!” Bahorel sighed and swung into the saddle, but Combeferre reached out to grab his horse’s bridle, holding him in place. “You do not only risk your livelihood with this. Don’t forget that.”

Bahorel’s expression softened as he looked down at Combeferre. “He’s my father. And I owe it to him to explain, if he is still alive, that everything he sacrificed and worked for was worth it.” Then his expression hardened, and the grin that he gave Combeferre was fierce. “Besides, I won’t get caught.”

* * *

 

It was an unbearably hot day, with the sun stifling Bahorel in his second-finest tunic as he rode his horse through the streets in the shabbier part of Paris. As much as he had recognized the streets yesterday as he paraded through them, here, with no pomp and pageantry, was  _his_  Paris, the streets that had been at once his home as well as his whole world. There, the crumbled shop where he and the mason’s boy had played knights and soldiers; there, the alley where he and the other city boys had staged an attack on the sons of the farmers that had come to the market to sell their wares.

And somewhere in the twisting maze of narrow streets and derelict buildings, the place where he had lived with his father, if only he could remember which it was.

He reined his horse to a stop in front of a small shop, where a little girl sat out front, playing with a bundle of rags that had been twisted and pinned to resemble a horse (Bahorel’s heart clenched at the sight; he too had proudly owned such a horse, before he was too old to stop playing with toys). Clearing his throat as much to catch her attention as to quash the emotion that had risen in his chest, Bahorel said loudly, “Hello there!”

The girl looked up and instantly froze, gaping at him open-mouthed. “You’re…you’re Sir William des Roches!”

Bahorel couldn’t help but smile. “Yes, I am.”

The awe on her face faded quickly, and the girl scratched her ear as she looked up at him with squinty eyes. “I’m Azelma,” she offered carelessly before telling him earnestly, “You’re my favorite knight, you know. When we joust, I always say I’m you.” Bahorel’s mouth went dry and he could only nod, too overcome with emotion to speak. He had known that word of his exploits would have reached the people of Paris, but never would have thought that he…well, that he would have been someone’s favorite. He remembered the heroes of his childhood, and could hardly imagine being in the same category as that. Azelma cocked her head. “What’re you doing in this neighborhood? There’s no parade today.”

For a moment, Bahorel hesitated, but how could he do anything but tell this girl the truth? Who knows if it would inspire her or what, but… “Can you keep a secret?” he asked, sliding off of his horse to get closer to her level. “I grew up in this neighborhood, just around the corner there.”

He pointed down the street where he was fairly certain he and his father had lived. Azelma looked from where he was pointing back to him, her eyes going wide. “Truly, Sir William? But I live only just there.”

She pointed to a dilapidated building only a few doors down from the corner, and Bahorel bit his lip, wondering if his luck was finally paying out. “Well, how old are you?”

Holding up both her hands, she pronounced solemnly, “Nine and one half.”

“Nine and one half,” Bahorel repeated slowly. It was a long shot, but perhaps— “I wonder if you remember a man, though he may have died before you were born. He was as tall as a knight. His name was Jacques Toiture.”

Azelma looked at him contemptuously. “Of course I remember him,” she told Bahorel, her tone making it clear that he must think her an idiot, and she found that rather rude. “He lives two doors down from me. Sometimes we see him sitting at the window, but no one knows why.”

Bahorel frowned at her, though his heart was pounding in his chest at the fact that his father was still alive, and more than that, that he lived still in their old house. “What do you mean?”

“He’s blind,” Azelma said, in the blunt way that children have.

Bahorel was taken aback. His father, the strongest man he had ever known, blind? But then, how had he made a living? Surely the man could no longer thatch roofs as he once had. He swallowed hard and managed a smile at Azelma, pulling a gold coin from his pocket and pressing it into her hand. “Thank you for your help, Azelma. I hope you’ll be able to sneak in to the stadium to see some of the joust.”

Azelma frowned slightly. “They closed up the hole in the fence,” she complained, “so I don’t know how we’ll get in.”

Winking conspiratorially, Bahorel leaned down to whisper, “Check the masonry on the far side. There were some loose stones that I doubt they’ve taken the time to fix in the past few years. It might be tight, but you should be able to wriggle through.”

Her entire face lit up, and she told him excitedly, “No one’s gonna believe I met a real knight, you know. Especially someone like you, Sir William.”

Bahorel smiled slightly. “It is a rather fantastic tale,” he agreed. “But I think you’ll be persuasive enough. Now run along and take that coin to your mother or father so you don’t lose it.”

She nodded and slipped back inside the house, and Bahorel took a deep breath before turning back to his horse. He led his horse down the street to the house that she had pointed out and tied the horse outside before taking another deep breath.

Twelve long years, and now his father was blind. Would his father even know him? Did he still think about the son that had left so long ago?

It was time to find out.

Bahorel took the stairs two at a time, grinning at the familiar creaks and warped boards. When he got to the door, he paused, and knocked on the open door’s frame.

His father looked up, and the breath caught in Bahorel’s throat. He had hardly changed. He looked older, certainly, and it was clear from the way his eyes stared that he was in fact blind, but he still looked tall and strong, even to Bahorel, who must now surely be taller and stronger than him. “Is someone there?” Jacques asked, a little impatiently. Bahorel didn’t speak, unsure of what to say, and Jacques snorted and turned back to the net he was working on mending – good work for a blind man, requiring less sight and more feel. “If you’re here for the net, I haven’t finished yet. Come back tomorrow.”

Instead, Bahorel took a step into the room, and Jacques cocked his head at the sound. “Who are you?”

“A knight,” Bahorel answered, the word sticking in his throat. “My name is William. William des Roches.”

Jacques turned to face him, even though he could not see him, a small frown creasing his brow. “des Roches?” he repeated. “I hear that name being chanted from the stadium. What business have you here?”

“I have word, Monsieur Toiture,” Bahorel told him. “Word of your son.”

At that, Jacques stood, a little unsteadily, his eyes wide as he stared unseeingly at Bahorel. “My son? You have word of my Bahorel? Come in, sir, come in!” Bahorel took a few steps closer and Jacques asked eagerly, “What word? Does he live?”

Bahorel nodded, then remembered that his father could not see him. “Aye, he lives. He lives very well.” His voice broke slightly as he told him, “He wanted you to know that he changed his stars after all.”

Jacques nodded slowly, his eyes filled with tears. “And has he followed his feet?” he asked hoarsely. “Has he found his way home at last?”

“Yes,” Bahorel whispered, reaching out to grasp his father’s forearm. “Yes, Father. He has.”

Jacques let out a wordless cry and pulled Bahorel into a strong embrace. “Bahorel,” he cried. “Oh, my boy! You’ve come home. You’ve come home.”

* * *

 

Bahorel spent the next few hours with his father, recounting the last twelve years, especially the story of how he had become William des Roches. His father was a captive audience, laughing and gasping and cheering. When he had finished, Jacques told Bahorel, “Oh, I should like to meet your friends. Feuilly, Joly, Combeferre, and this Bossuet fellow as well.”

“You will, Father,” Bahorel assured him, grinning. “You will.”

Jacques nodded and took a sip of ale before asking, “And what of women? If you’re a true Toiture, you’re left a string of broken hearts between here and Warwick.”

Bahorel blushed slightly. “Men more than women, though that isn’t to say I’ve broken more men’s hearts than women’s,” he corrected his father. “And there is a certain one, a true highborn lord.”

“Then I should like to meet him as well,” Jacques said easily, smiling. “Imagine, my son courting a highborn lord. Oh, your mother would just die to see that.”

“You will meet Jehan,” Bahorel said, expression turning contemplative. “In fact, you’ll meet all of them. Why don’t you come to the stadium?”

Jacques frowned. “Bahorel, I’m blind. Even if I could see you joust, which I cannot, I would not risk giving away your secret. Besides, I can hear it just as well from here.”

Bahorel wanted to argue, but knew that his father was probably correct, and settled instead for telling him softly, “One day, you’ll be able to be there, too.”

Reaching out, Jacques gently touched Bahorel’s cheek. “You’ve changed your stars, my boy,” he told him roughly. “That’s all I’ve wanted for you.” His tone turned brisk. “Now come, night is falling and you should be back before you’re missed. I’ll walk you downstairs.”

Bahorel stood and offered him his arm to his father and together they walked down the stairs. Outside of the house, Jacques pulled Bahorel into another embrace, and told him, “I’m very proud of you, Bahorel.”

Nodding, Bahorel couldn’t manage much more than a brief, “Thank you”, but his father understood. Then Bahorel untied his horse and left, feeling far better having seen his father.

If he had seen the figure of Claquesous lurking outside of a hovel down the street, he might not have felt as good. But as it was, he did not see Claquesous there, nor did he see the triumphant grin that crossed Claquesous’s face before he left to report what he had seen to Montparnasse.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings for brief violence at the end of the chapter.**

Bahorel couldn’t stop grinning the next day, though it was hotter even than the day before and he was well-drenched in sweat before Feuilly and Joly could even get his armor on him. Still, he wouldn’t have noticed either heat or cold, so excited was he, both for seeing his father and for the fact that he was soon to tilt against Montparnasse, and he told Combeferre animatedly, for the third time that morning, “Alive! Can you believe it? And here I was afraid he’d be dead, which is mad, because how could he be?”

Feuilly and Joly glanced at each other and rolled their eyes in unison while Éponine snickered behind her hand where neither Combeferre – who looked as if his patience was wearing thin – nor Bahorel could see her. Thankfully, Bahorel was saved from recounting the story yet again by Bossuet, who came into the tent with Jehan following close behind. “Jehan,” Bahorel breathed, pulling away from Joly and Feuilly to grab Jehan and kiss him deeply. “This day just gets better and better.”

But when Jehan pulled back from Bahorel, his smile was strained, and he glanced over at Bossuet, who looked somber, almost grim even. “Did someone die?” Combeferre asked, raising an eyebrow at the both of them.

Bossuet half-shrugged, his expression unchanging. “Sir William des Roches.”

Everyone besides Bahorel glanced at Jehan to see if he was surprised, but by his lack of response they gathered that he must already know Bahorel’s secret – or what he hadn’t known for sure, he had already guessed. Bahorel, however, stared at Bossuet, his expression blank. “What?”

It was Jehan who answered, almost tentatively. “Montparnasse had you followed last night. His man says that he saw your father.”

Bahorel still looked blank as he looked at Jehan, who had lost what hint of a smile he had worn before. “Bahorel, they asked me for your patents,” Bossuet said quietly. “They’ll be waiting for you in the lists. They’re going to arrest you. A dozen royal guards – they’ll put you in the stocks.”

“But I face Montparnasse in five minutes time…” Bahorel started, his voice hollow, and Bossuet just shook his head.

“No. You forfeit.” Bahorel recoiled as if Bossuet had struck him, shaking his head as Bossuet continued, “They’ve already marked it down.”

For one long, ugly moment, no one said anything, staring at Bahorel, waiting for someone to say what they were going to do. It didn’t matter that they had known this day might come; now that it was here, no one really knew what to do. Faced with the enormity of what they had collectively done, no one knew what to say, what to do, and how to offer words of comfort for a crime in which they were all complicit.

It was Combeferre who finally said something, unsurprisingly. He cleared his throat and said, unusually gruff, undoubtedly hiding his own emotions as he was far too good at doing, “Saddle the horses. They can arrest your baggage, not you.”

Those words set off a flurry of activity as Feuilly hurried to the horse and Joly bent to pack their belongings. Bahorel alone did not move, instead staring at Jehan, who lifted his chin as Bahorel looked at him. “So what do you think?” Bahorel asked, holding his hands out from his sides. “Now that you know what I am. What do you think?”

He didn’t know what words Jehan might say – certainly he knew what he hoped Jehan would tell him. But Jehan surprised him, as Jehan always did, meeting Bahorel’s eyes unflinchingly and telling him, “To know what you are, Bahorel, would take a lifetime, one that I am most willing to give.” He took a step closer to Bahorel, reaching up to cup Bahorel’s cheek, and his voice was quiet but determined as he told him, “But right now, you’ve got to run. Run, and I will run with you.”

Bahorel rested his hand against Jehan’s, the conflict clear in his expression. “I cannot run,” he whispered, and Jehan closed his eyes as Bahorel continued, in a louder voice, “I am a knight! A knight does not run from this or any hazard!”

“You’re a knight in your heart, but not on paper,” Combeferre told him, his voice curt. “And papers all that matters to them.”

Shaking his head, Bahorel started to pull away from Jehan, who closed his hands around Bahorel’s wrists, keeping him still. “Bahorel, I love you. I love you – you, the man who I know to more knightly than any who call themselves as such, the only man who has ever won my heart, the man who is worth more to me than any – but I will not see you led away in chains.”

Bahorel’s lip curled. “But you’ll see me run?” he spat, yanking his hands from Jehan’s grip. “No! I am a knight!”

Tears shone in Jehan’s eyes and caused his voice to waver as he told Bahorel in a low voice, “Damn your pride. It is you and only you that will not see you run.”

Bahorel reached out, placing both his hands on either side of Jehan’s face, desperate to explain, desperate to make him understand this more than anything else. “My pride is the only thing they can’t take from me.”

“But they can,” Jehan shot back, his eyes wide, and Bahorel realized for the first time that Jehan was scared, scared for him. “They can take it from you, and they will. Where will your pride be when you’re locked in the stocks or away in a jail cell where I will never see you again?” Bahorel didn’t answer and Jehan closed the space between them, kissing him desperately, fiercely, hard enough to hurt. “Love they cannot take.”

Something that was half-sob, half-laugh tore from Bahorel and he wrenched away from Jehan. “You don’t know what you are asking for,” he told Jehan. “Where will we live, if we run? How will we live? In a hovel, with the pigs inside in winter so they won’t freeze? I have lived that life, but you…you have never lived that way, and I would never want you to.” He shook his head. “I would not doom you to the life of the poor.”

Jehan said quietly, “The poor can marry for love.” Bahorel turned and started to turn away, but Jehan reached out to grab his arm. “Please,” he said to Bahorel, his voice cracking as he spoke, and Bahorel closed his eyes so he didn’t have to see the look on Jehan’s face. “I beg you. Run away with me. Please.”

Bahorel did not look back at Jehan, instead glancing around the tent. “Combeferre, would you see me run as well?” Combeferre swallowed hard, and barely managed a nod. Bahorel didn’t have time to contemplate what this would mean for him, what this would mean for Combeferre and his own love – would Courfeyrac run with them just as surely as Jehan, or would he be loath to leave the warmth and comfort of castle life?

It didn’t matter now, Bahorel supposed.

He turned instead to Bossuet, whose eyes were also wet. “And you, Bossuet? Would you see me run?”

“Yes,” Bossuet whispered, and Bahorel saw him glance at Joly before he answered, in a slightly louder voice, “With all the pieces of my heart I wish it.”

Joly nodded solemnly as Bahorel looked at him, and Bahorel swallowed, looking at Feuilly, his tone turning wheedling. “Feuilly – you and I – we’re not runners. We stay and we fight.”

Feuilly half-smiled but Bahorel could already see on his face that he would not get the answer that he sought. “Not today,” Feuilly told him. “I’ve tried telling you from the beginning that there’s a time and place for fighting, and it’s not here. Today we’re runners.”

From where she stood, alone even amongst everyone, Éponine added softly, “Run. You must run.”

Bahorel stared around at his friends, his lover, the people in the world who mattered the most to him, and he felt an acute pain in his chest, as if his breastplate had just shrunk. “No,” he said, quietly, but his voice rose to a shout as he told them, “I will  _not_  run! I am a knight!”

He so desperately wanted them to understand, to realize. This wasn’t about pride, this was about  _honor_. For so long Bahorel had sought to change his stars, to make a life for himself that was honorable and noble and everything he had always wanted and he had done that. And through that position, through the life that he had never expected to lead, he had seen the impact that a man in his position could have, the honorable things that were expected of a knight, the kind of things that should have been far above the reach of a peasant.

To lose that now, to lose everything he had worked for…

If he was guilty of anything, it was guilty of living in a dream, but what Jehan suggested, running away and living as peasants, that would be living in a nightmare. He could no more return to that life than drag Jehan down with him. If he was to do anything for love, it would be to stay and fight for the life that Jehan deserved, for the life they could live together.  _That_  was worth fighting for, as much as Bahorel’s honor.

He could not run, not when that was what was at stake.

So he shook his head and crossed his arms in front of his chest. Jehan still looked close to tears but made no move toward him. Indeed, everyone seemed close to tears, everyone except Combeferre, who stared at Bahorel, dry-eyed. “Well, lads,” Combeferre said, his voice still gruff, “all good things must come to an end. Let’s end them together.”

Again, it was Combeferre’s simple words that stirred them to action, and together they walked to the lists, though Jehan stayed behind, unwilling still to watch Bahorel be arrested.

Just as Bossuet had said, royal guards awaited them, and a tournament official made to stop Bahorel before he could enter the lists. The look he gave Bahorel was one of absolute disgust. “You will remove yourself from this position of honor,” he commanded.

Bahorel raised his chin and looked past the official, looked out at the crowds, at the people here who believed him to be a knight, to the peasant children that had found a way in, and he remembered his conversation with the little girl – Azelma. She had believed so readily that he could be both a knight and from the slums. Why could not everyone be so ready to believe and understand?

He told the official, his voice proud and strong, “I am here to compete.”

The official snorted and spit at Bahorel’s feet. “You are here to be arrested,” he told Bahorel scornfully, and gestured at the guards, who leapt into action, knocking Combeferre and Feuilly away from where they flanked Bahorel.

He did not fight them. He was here to fight a knight, here to fight for his honor – he would not risk injury to men who were only doing their duty. Still, one yanked Bahorel’s head back by his hair, and he looked straight across the lists at where Montparnasse sat on his horse, smirking at Bahorel.

He clearly thought he had won, had beaten Bahorel, had finally triumphed in this as in everything.

And what was worse, as Bahorel was led away, he couldn’t find it in himself to think otherwise.

* * *

 

The cell was cold, and wet, and Bahorel’s shoulders and arms ached already from being manacled. He was bound for the stocks, eventually, when they cleared one in a suitably public enough venue, and it was a small blessing that he would retain his head, and would not be drawn and quartered or any of the other very real possibilities that he had considered as he had been led away.

Of course, at this point, the fact that Bahorel would keep his life might not have been considered mercy.

If he survived his time in the stocks – and the guards had been viciously vague on how long Bahorel would be there – Bahorel would forever face a life a scorn, the life of a common criminal, or worse, as knights were one of the most respected positions in society, and to impersonate one…not even the lowest of peasants would feel sympathy.

And Jehan…

Bahorel shook his head and closed his eyes. He couldn’t think of Jehan, not now. It hurt too much to think that he may have lost the best part of any of this, the best part of  _himself_. As much as he prided himself on his honor – well, his honor and his ability to beat any man who crossed his path – what was his honor compared to Jehan? His honor was what led him here, what led him away from Jehan, and for the first time, he wondered if this had been the right choice.

But then he thought of Jehan, beautiful, lively Jehan, living in squalor, his bright doublets stained with dirt, and he knew that he had made the right choice. He could not have sentenced Jehan to that life, the consequences to himself be damned.

And maybe, just maybe, there was some honor in that choice, too.

He head his cell door open but could not turn to see who it was. The boots against the hard-packed earth sounded unfamiliar, not like the guards from earlier, and he twisted his head in vain. “Sir William.”

At the sound of Montparnasse’s cold voice, Bahorel froze, rage spiking in his blood. Montparnasse slowly circled Bahorel, prowling like a cat, an apt metaphor given the grin he still wore, like a cat that had cornered a mouse. “Or should I say Bahorel.” His name dripped like poison off of Montparnasse’s tongue, but Bahorel did not flinch, staring stonily back at him. “I admit this is an improvement, at least from where I’m standing. Tell me, when they took your armor, did they take your tongue as well, or have you finally learned to hold your tongue in the presence of your superiors?”

Bahorel spat in Montparnasse’s face.

To his surprise, Montparnasse did not rage, did not strike him in retaliation – he laughed, a quiet, condescending chuckle, and wiped his face on his sleeve. “I should have known that you would not find manners here, with your own kind.”

Then, out of nowhere, he struck Bahorel, punching his fist into Bahorel’s side in a blow that would have knocked him to his knees if it were not for his bound wrists holding him in place. “You have been weighed,” Montparnasse told him, eyes glittering savagely, and though Bahorel expected the next blow, it did not lessen the pain. “You have been measured.” The final blow to Bahorel’s kidneys elicited the first sound from Bahorel, a painful whine that he could not hold back. “And you have been found wanting.”

Bahorel sagged against his chains, every breath painful, eyes barely able to focus. Montparnasse grabbed Bahorel’s hair to yank him upright, their faces mere inches apart, and the look he gave Bahorel was less contemptuous and more curious, as if trying to read something in Bahorel’s face. Then he asked, quietly, “In what world could you have ever beaten me?”

He released his grip on Bahorel’s hair, and Bahorel sagged again, unable to hold himself up. Closing his eyes, Bahorel listened to the sound of Montparnasse leaving, tears welling in his eyes, though whether they were from the pain or from something else, he did not know.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second-to-last chapter! Added a scene with Jehan and Grantaire because this may be the longest fic I've written with such little Grantaire. My poor baby.
> 
> Please be kind and tip your fanfic writers in the form of comments and/or kudos.

Jehan did not weep. He paced through his bedchamber, alone, even Courfeyrac barred from entry, and the only word he could summon for himself was inconsolable, but he did not weep. He was angry — at Bahorel, at the guards, at Montparnasse, at the whole damned situation — and tears would do nothing to make any of it better. And as he had discovered, slamming his fist into the cold stones of his bedchamber wall did little to make it better either, though it did bring forth tears of a very different nature.

He was interrupted from his pacing by a rap on his door and the nervous voice of a page calling, “My lord, you have a visitor.”

“I am not seeing any visitors at the moment,” Jehan told him, fighting to keep from spitting the words; it was not the boy’s fault, after all, that someone would be foolish enough to visit Jehan when he was in a black mood.

Despite his words, the door to his bedchamber opened, and Jehan whirled around, his expression tightening, “I said—” he started, though he stopped immediately when he saw who it was. “Duke Grantaire. I…what are you doing here?”

Grantaire smiled wanly at him as he slowly entered the room. “It is rare nowadays that I am almost denied entry by anyone in the realm,” he said calmly, crossing to Jehan’s be and sitting down on the edge of it to smile up at him. “Rare to the point where I had almost considered the practice extinct. I am glad to know that it is still alive and well, at least among those who knew me long before I was duke, and long before I was in love with Enjolras.”

“You were always in love with Enjolras,” Jehan said, automatically, though he was still staring at Grantaire with something close to contempt in his expression.

Grantaire’s smile widened. “True enough. Then let me amend — long before Enjolras was in love with me, at least. But then, some customs should never die, and refusing one’s friends when one is in a foul mood is one of those customs, don’t you think?”

Jehan glared at him, his hands curling into fists. “Forgive me, my lord,” he managed, though his voice trembled slightly. “I know my response must seem rude to you, but as the man I love was arrested on charges ranging from fraud to treason against the crown, I am not in the mood to battle wits with you.”

“Luckily for you, that is not why I am here, and not just because with you in this mood, you would enter the battle wholly unarmed.” Jehan’s expression darkened even further, and Grantaire held his hands up. “I am sorry. You know that jests come too easily to me, particularly in situations where they are inappropriate.”

Shaking his head slightly, Jehan crossed his arms in front of his chest. “If you have not come here for our usual banter, why have you come?”

Grantaire shrugged. “We are cousins, or soon to be, when Enjolras and I say our marriage vows before God and the necessary witnesses. And you and I grew up together, and that is a bond that needs no witnesses besides us. I gave you your first kiss, did I not?”

Despite himself, Jehan managed a small smile. “We were eight,” he said stiffly. “I do not think it counts.”

Nodding sagely, Grantaire asked, “And when you were the first person to put my cock in your mouth, does that also not count?”

Jehan waved his hand dismissively, his smile growing. “I doubt I was the first person to suck you off. I know all about you and that farmer’s girl – what was her name?”

Grantaire’s expression grew fond. “Ah, yes. Good ol’ whats-her-name. She was my first for many things, it is true. But nothing will compare to the memory of me spending after only fifteen seconds of you sucking, and then trying to hide from you the rest of the day because I was so embarrassed.” Jehan laughed, and Grantaire smiled at him. “And see, this is why I have come.”

Jehan’s smile faded slightly. “Why, because you can amuse me temporarily? Rouse me for the moment from the doldrums in which I find myself?”

“No, because I can distract you from your thoughts while those of us who care about you search for a way out of this.” Grantaire leaned forward, suddenly serious. “Your lover — call him what you will, but the whole of Paris knows that you two were lovers — has been arrested for treason against the crown, and your father has agreed to let Count Montparnasse to marry you. Were your lover a knight, he could challenge Montparnasse for your hand, within the boundaries of the law.”

“But he is not a knight,” Jehan said softly, sinking on to the bed next to Grantaire.

Grantaire nodded. “But he is not a knight. Which makes the situation…delicate.”

Jehan’s tone turned almost pleading, and he reached out to grasp Grantaire’s hand. “Isn’t there something —  _anything_  — that Enjolras could do?”

Shaking his head slowly, Grantaire looked away. “Enjolras is not king, not yet, and though he is your cousin on your mother’s side, he would need a very good reason for overruling the will of your father. And the fact that you love another is not, within the law, a good enough reason.”

Jehan pulled his hands away from Grantaire and stood, his eyes wild. “Then I should be allowed to despair!” he cried. “As I am not allowed to take to horseback myself and win my own hand, to give to whom I choose.”

Grantaire stood as well, slowly, something curious in his expression. “If you could, would you take to the lists in full armor, lance in hand, to fight for your lover’s honor?”

Jehan lifted his chin, his eyes flashing. “I would.”

Grantaire’s smile was gentle as he reached out to squeeze Jehan’s shoulder. “Your father was wrong about you when you were a child, setting you aside to train into the role of dutiful husband. You are more a knight than half of those wearing the title.” Jehan blinked back tears and Grantaire squeezed his shoulder once more before dropping his hand. “Luckily, I do not think you will need to take to sword or lance to solve this, as nice as it is to know we have that option. Enjolras is working something out.”

“But…I thought you said…” Jehan started, confused.

Now the grin Grantaire gave him was wicked. “I said that Enjolras cannot overrule your father. But there’s more than one way out of this quagmire, and luckily,  _my_  lover is as skilled battling off the lists as on.”

On any other day, such a statement would have evoked much playful fighting between the two, but that day, Jehan merely offered Grantaire a strained — yet hopeful — smile. “You truly believe he will work all of this out?”

Grantaire reached out to embrace Jehan, pulling him close, lifting his hand to stroke Jehan’s hair. “I know that he will. I know it.”

* * *

 

The stocks were uncomfortable, but compared to the cramped, damp cell that Bahorel had previously been in, the open air was nice, and the position at least did not openly hurt him — yet. Given how long he would be staying in the stocks, it would undoubtedly hurt eventually, but right now, it did not hurt enough to distract him from the taunts and jeers from the gathering crowd, the peasants who had come to mock the one of their own who he could be something more than what he was.

Bahorel closed his eyes as a rotten fruit smashed against the side of his head, its juice dribbling down his face. Whoever threw the first fruit emboldened the crowd, and soon more things were flung his way.

Suddenly, Bahorel saw movement on his side, and turned his head as best he could to find Combeferre, brandishing a thick, wooden club, clearly ready to protect Bahorel if need be. Bahorel just sighed and let his head drop. “Leave, Combeferre. Let them have me.”

Combeferre tightened his grip on the club and did not move. “God love you, Bahorel,” he growled. “So do I.”

He was not alone in stepping up next to Bahorel; on Bahorel’s other side, Feuilly stood, weaponless, fists raised as he shouted at the crowd, “Go! Disperse! Or I will beat all of you!”

“Pain,” Joly promised from Feuilly’s side, his expression almost savage. “There will be lots of pain.”

The crowd just laughed and continued throwing things and jeering. Bossuet cleared his throat and stood up, ready to appease them. “Listen to me!” he shouted, but was met with even more cries than before.

“Liar!” someone shouted, and a tomato landed square on Bossuet’s bald head.

If anything, their attempts to calm the crowd only served to rile them, and they moved closer to Bahorel. Even Éponine came to Bahorel’s side, her smith’s hammer ready to hit any that got close.

But at that moment, a small group of monks who had been watching the crowd silently stepped forward, and their leader pushed his cowl back, revealing his shiny golden curls. A gasp went through the crowd as he disrobed, revealing his tabard underneath, a tabard that bore the golden lion and fleur-de-lis only able to be worn by one individual in all of France: Prince Enjolras, the Dauphin.

In awe, the crowd dropped to their knees as Enjolras stepped toward Bahorel, one hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword. Bahorel craned his head to look up at him, and swallowed hard. “I would bend the knee, Your Grace, but I find myself otherwise occupied.”

Enjolras laughed lightly, and shook his head. “This is not the first time I find myself opposite you, who will not bend a knee to propriety’s demands.” Instead, Enjolras himself squatted down so that Bahorel did not need to crane his neck as much. “What a pair we make. Both trying to hide who we are, both unable to do so.” He looked around at Combeferre, Feuilly, Joly, Bossuet, and Éponine, and his expression softened. “Your men love you. If I knew nothing else about you, that would be enough.”

He stood then, and gazed out at the gathered crowd, who had stood as well, watching the scene warily, and then turned back to Bahorel, half-smiling. “But you also tilt when you should withdraw. And that is knightly, too.”

He gestured to his guards, who stepped forward. “Release him.” Then he turned to once again survey the crowd, his gaze cool. “Hear me, now. This man may appear to be of humble origins, but my personal historians have discovered that he descended from an ancient royal line. This is my word, and as such, is beyond contestation.”

The guards made quick work of releasing Bahorel from the stocks, and he straightened slowly, his body protesting, and rubbed his wrists. Enjolras turned to him, still smiling, and inclined his head slightly. “Now, if I may repay the kindness you once showed me, take a knee.”

Bahorel glanced up at Enjolras, surprised, and then at his friends, who nodded encouragingly at him, before sinking to the ground on one knee. Enjolras pulled his sword from its sheath and laid it against Bahorel’s shoulder as he intoned, “By the power vested in my by my father, the King, and by all the witnesses here today, I dub thee Sir Bahorel. Arise, Sir Bahorel.”

He offered Bahorel his hand, and Bahorel took it, allowing Enjolras to pull him to his feet. The crowd, previously willing to laugh and jeer, now erupted into cheers and applause, and Enjolras grinned at him. “Tell me, are you fit to joust?”

“Sorry?” Bahorel said, sure that he must have misunderstood.

Enjolras raised an eyebrow at him. “There’s a tournament to be finished. Now, are you fit to compete for all that is at stake, or shall the forfeit stand?”

Bahorel grinned fiercely, the first smile he had allowed himself since being taken by the guard, and told Enjolras, “Oh, I’m fit. Believe me, I am fit.”

Enjolras grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. “I shall have your opponent informed of it. You look for his shield on the lists.”

With that, he turned back to his guards, gesturing for them to accompany him, and Bahorel called after him, “Thank you, your grace!”

Half-turning back, Enjolras returned, “The best way to thank me is to win.” Then he raised his hand in salute.

Bahorel grinned and clenched his hand into a fist. He would win – he would beat Montparnasse once and for all – and he would win Jehan the way he had just won a royal title.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally we reach the end!
> 
> A massive thanks to everyone who's read, kudos'd, commented, etc.!!

When Montparnasse received word from Claquesous that Bahorel had not only been freed from the stocks but had been knighted, that Prince Enjolras himself had declared Bahorel of a noble line spanning centuries, more than enough to qualify him to compete, he had not stabbed Claquesous. Instead, he asked, in his lowest, most dangerous voice, for Claquesous to bring him the messenger that had brought Claquesous the news originally.

And when Claquesous returned with the squire in question, Montparnasse drew his dagger and stabbed the squire in the gut, watching dispassionately as the man collapsed to the floor, blood spilling across the rushes. He bent and wiped his dagger on the man’s sleeve and glanced up at Claquesous, who looked pale, but not shocked. “I needed to stab someone,” Montparnasse said, calmly. “And you still have some value to me.”

He stood without glancing back at the body at his feet. “Bring me the king’s own baker, the finest marzipan creator in the kingdom.”

“The…baker, my lord?” Claquesous repeated.

Montparnasse glanced up at him, his eyes dark. “Yes. The baker. I have a plan, a plan to defeat this  _Sir_  Bahorel once and for all. And once you have returned, you can have someone clean this filth from the floor.”

Claquesous nodded and quickly backed away, and Montparnasse turned back to his desk, ignoring the dead body on the floor. He picked up a piece of parchment, a written record of one of the last times a knight had purposely been killed in tournament. The record detailed how the other knight had tipped his lance with metal to pierce the knight’s armor, and then had used spun sugar and marzipan to disguise the metal until it was too late.

It had taken only one strike from the lance to pierce the knight’s armor and drive the tipped lance straight into his heart. One strike, and if Montparnasse duplicated the process, it would take only strike to finally rid himself of Bahorel.

He clenched his fist above the paper and smiled grimly. How he won did not matter, so long as he won in the end.

* * *

 

Despite assuring Prince Enjolras that he was fit to compete, the prince had made arrangements for Bahorel’s match against Montparnasse to be pushed back as far as possible, and Bahorel was secretly glad for the time, able to massage his sore muscles into relaxing before strapping on his armor.

Of course, the additional time also left him able to brood and work his fury into a palpable force so that when Bossuet handed him his lance in the lists, Bahorel clenched it so hard he thought he might break it. “It’s small target,” Bossuet told him grimly, eyeing Montparnasse at the other end of the lists, “but aim for his heart.”

Claquesous had just finished presenting Montparnasse to the crowd, and a tournament official stepped forward, ready to drop the flag. Bahorel glanced up at the stands, expecting to see Jehan there watching, but instead found only his valet, Courfeyrac, who shrugged at him. Well, perhaps it was better if Jehan didn’t witness this, anyway, since if Bahorel could strike his lance through Montparnasse, he would have.

He slammed his visor down as the official dropped the flag and spurred his horse forward, charging at Montparnasse with only one thought in his mind: strike.

His lance was aimed true, set to break across Montparnasse’s chest, but Montparnasse’s struck first, and instead of splintering into pieces, it  _rammed_ into Bahorel, choking off his breath and leaving a piercing pain that threatened to knock Bahorel off of his horse just as it knocked the lance from his hand, unbroken.

It was only a matter of sheer luck that he remained on his horse, even if he swayed dangerously in his saddle while his friends ran to his side. Joly reached him first, his face draining of all color as he looked at the foot-long spike that stuck out from Bahorel’s shoulder. “I’ll fetch the surgeon,” he gasped.

“Joly!” Bahorel’s voice was breathless and pained, and he barely managed to grit out, “You’re the surgeon now.”

If possible, Joly paled even more, but nodded firmly, grabbing the lance and taking a deep breath before pulling it out, quickly pressing the piece of cloth Bossuet handed him into the wound. Éponine grabbed the lance and examined it, her expression darkening. “He’s tipped it.”

Feuilly’s hands curled into fists. “That son of a bitch. That’s  _illegal_.”

“Just get me back to one,” Bahorel managed, still breathy, as if he couldn’t quite get a complete breath. “Get me back to one or we forfeit.”

In silence, they traipsed back across the lists, though Feuilly and Combeferre were having a silence conversation, where Feuilly clearly wanted to do  _something_  to Montparnasse, and Combeferre was having difficulty restraining him from doing so. Still, they made it back to their side of the lists, and Feuilly, after a glare from Combeferre, handed Bahorel his second lance, which he promptly dropped, crying out at the pain.

On the second try, he just managed to grasp it, though it was hardly in the position to be able to strike Montparnasse, and he only managed to knee his horse forward enough to allow the official to drop the flag. He had dropped the lance far before Montparnasse got to him, though thankfully this lance shattered across Bahorel’s breastplate without piercing him.

Still, the blow was hard enough to knock Bahorel’s breath out of him, and this time when his friends ran to his side, he gasped, “Ép — I can’t breathe.”

As Éponine quickly went to work removing his breastplate, Montparnasse wheeled in his horse and slowly trotted up to Bahorel, lifting his visor to smirk at him. “As I said, Toiture, in what world could you have ever beaten me?” He raised his broken lance in a mocking salute and galloped away, leaving Combeferre physically restraining Feuilly from going after him, while Joly was busy redressing Bahorel’s wound.

The silence hung heavily between them until Bossuet straightened and pointed into the stands.. “Look, Bahorel — Lord Prouvaire is here. And so is—”

“My father,” Bahorel managed, following Bossuet’s pointing, watching as Jehan slowly led Bahorel’s father into the stands. He closed his eyes, and the tears that pricked at the corners of his eyes were not fully from the pain. “Changer your stars,” he whispered to himself. “Change your stars.”

His eyes snapped open and Bahorel stared straight down the lists at Montparnasse, his hand clenching into a fist despite the pain. “Let’s dance, you and I.”

Combeferre released Feuilly, recognizing that something had shifted in Bahorel, that the fight was not yet done. “It’s two lances to none,” he warned Bahorel. “You must unhorse him or kill him. It’s the only way to win.”

“And personally, I hope it’s the latter,” Feuilly muttered, glaring at Montparnasse again before looking at the tournament officials, who were preparing to drop the flag for the final run.

Bahorel nodded in understanding, and Éponine picked up his breastplate, frowning critically at it. “You need more padding—” she started, but Bahorel cut her off, shaking his head.

“No, leave it off. I can’t breathe with it on.” He looked over to Feuilly. “Lance.” Feuilly glanced at Combeferre, who shrugged, and handed Bahorel the lance. Bahorel promptly dropped it, crying out. “No, aargh, I can barely grip it.” He clenched his hand again, his breath shuddering, and looked at Feuilly again, determination clear on his face. “Lash it to my arm.” Feuilly looked at Bahorel as if he was crazy, and Bahorel repeated, “Come on, lash it to my arm.”

Feuilly glanced back at Combeferre, who also looked torn, until Joly said firmly, “Do as he says.”

Nodding, Feuilly bent to the task, but the tournament official was already moving to drop the flag. “We need more time,” Joly muttered urgently, glancing at Feuilly.

“Leave it to me,” Bossuet told him, dropping a quick kiss to Joly’s lips, not caring who saw, before vaulting on top of the rail and shouting, “Good people! I missed my introduction!”

The crowd went wild, cheering and whooping, and the tournament official took a step back, giving Bossuet permission to continue, permission that shaped a fierce smile on Bossuet’s face, and he raised his arms to the crowd, drinking them in. “But please, please, I pray you, hear it now. I would dispose of all the grace in my tongue if I could only capture how monumental a moment this is. That man, there—” he pointed to Bahorel, and the crowd’s cheers grew louder “—that man, a knight in name, a knight in blood, and a knight in honor, was born a stone’s throw from this very stadium, and here he sits before you!” If possible, the cheers swelled even further, and Bossuet’s voice cracked as he shouted above the turmoil, “And so, I’m afraid without any ado whatsoever, here he is, one of your own, here before you now, the son of Jacques Toiture, Sir Bahorel Toiture!”

As Feuilly finished tying the lance to Bahorel’s arm, he told him, his voice thick, “That’s your name, Bahorel. Sir Bahorel Toiture. Your father head that.”

Bahorel nodded slowly and swallowed hard, his face tightening, and with the lance lashed to his arm, with no breastplate protecting him, he nudged his horse forward to face off against Montparnasse for the final time.

He was a knight, and he would go down fighting.

The official waved the flag and Bahorel urged his horse forward. Any pain he was still feeling disappeared, replaced by the sudden surge of adrenaline, the fierce anger that pounded through his very being. He was a  _knight_ , he had  _honor_ , something the man he faced lacked completely. And he would not lose to a man such as that. He would not lose the man he loved to a man such as that.

And as his horse pounded down the lists, Bahorel’s anger turned into sharp precision, settling on a single goal, and his lance hit home, striking Montparnasse squarely and lifting him clear off of his horse, crashing to the ground.

Bahorel thundered past before wheeling his horse around, lifting his broken lance in triumph as the crowd erupted in cheers. Bahorel was yelling himself hoarse, as, it appeared, was everyone else. Prince Enjolras was on his feet, cheering and hugging Duke Grantaire, who looked more amused than anything, as was Bahorel’s father, tears shining on his cheeks even if he could not see what had happened. And Jehan—

Jehan was out of his seat and out of the stands, running across the lists toward Bahorel, his expression fierce, and once he reached him, he practically yanked him off of horse to kiss him, hard, wrapping his arms around Bahorel as best he could with Bahorel’s wound.

Bossuet and Joly were also kissing, and Combeferre had practically sprinted towards the stands and towards Courfeyrac, who was beaming at him. Éponine and Feuilly took one look at each other and turned quickly away.

Behind Bahorel, Montparnasse was stirring, though Claquesous, who was applauding with the crowd, made no move to come help him. Bahorel did not look at Montparnasse, did not look away from Jehan, pulling back only far enough to call, “ _This_  is the world in which I beat you, Count Montparnasse. Welcome to the new world.” He brushed a strand of hair out of Jehan’s face and added, “And what a beautiful world it is.”

Bossuet and Joly finally pulled apart from each other, grinning, and Bossuet said contentedly over the crowd, which had begun chanting Bahorel’s name, “I’m going to have to write some of this story down.”

“The part about the prince and the knights?” Joly asked.

Bossuet shrugged. “All of it, really. All human activity lies within the artist’s scope.” He smirked at Joly. “Well, maybe not yours…”

Joly rolled his eyes and kissed him again. “No one will believe you, you realize. This story is almost too fantastical to be real.”

“And that, my dear Jolllly,” Bossuet told him, “is what makes it great.” 


End file.
